Luineyende
by LA Knight
Summary: Traumatized, beaten, and cast out, Elluine has only one place she can go. Tenth Walker Story Extended. Begins the summer of 3001.
1. 00 Concerning the Village and the Girl

**At the bottom of this chapter is:**

_Chapter preview for Chapter One  
Chapter preview for Chapter Two  
Disclaimer  
Facts of Canon Versus Non-Canon  
List of Sources  
Translation of Elvish Words  
Footnote #1 & 2  
Translation of Hobbit Words  
Names of People and Their Meanings  
Concerning the Title  
Standard Author's Note_

**Martapennas X: Luineyende  
or  
Gwenelwe Nenara Dartha**

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**Prologue**  
**_Concerning the Village and the Girl_**

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_Dated: Elenya, Yavannie 22, Year 3 of the Fourth Age, by Gondorian Reckoning._

_Dated: Sterday, Halimath 22, in the Year 1424, by Shire Reckoning._

_From the records of Will Whitfoot, the Mayor of Michel Delving, Postmaster of the Messenger Service, and the First Shirriff of the Watch. Re-recorded and annotated by Elfstan Fairbairn, the Warden of Westmarch, in the Red Book of Westmarch in the year 1497, Shire Reckoning. Annotated by Samwise Took, Thain of the Shire, Meriadoc Fairbairn, the Warden of Westmarch, and Findegil, King's Writer, in the Year 174 of the Fourth Age by Gondorian Reckoning; Year 1595, by Shire Reckoning._

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The thing that truly started it all- that dratted wizard poking his great, big nose into Hobbit business once again; those four Hobbits gallivanting off into the night in such a scandalous fashion on all sorts of high, grand adventures and who else knew what and returning decked out like princes; the overtaking of the Shire by those Mannish ruffians; the Battle of Bywater, the Scouring of the Shire, Frodo and Bilbo Baggins' disappearances, and the return of the King- the main cause behind it all was the Village girl. That girl caused it all, and no wonder. That singularly unpleasant and loathsome girl was from the Village.

In truth, there were three villages, though only one was called so. One was barely in the Shire at all; it rested snugly in the woodlands just before travelers reached the Gray Havens. It was a pretty place, that one. Folk called it Shore View, because of where it was and the view it gave you of the Sea. It was actually the largest of the villages, though it only had seven little houses and a blacksmith's forge. The second village lay deep in the heart of the forests of Tuckborough, and the last one in the great, green woods of Buckland. But the little hamlet in the lands of the Took family was called the Hillside, because the five little houses there were all built on a little hill where broom, brushfire flowers, and witch weed grew. The one called the Village was the place in the forests of Buckland, right up against the borders between the dark recesses of the Old Forest and the rest of the wood. The Village was a tiny place, only three houses in the middle of the forests of Buckland, too small even to be called a decent hamlet, really, but the people that lived there called it the Village, and so it was, though decent, peaceful, normal folk only called it "that accursed place."

Only the Master of Buckland, the Brandybucks, and the Tooks had nothing ill to say about the Village, though no one knew what old Gorhendad Brandybuck, the first Master, had been thinking, allowing those people to settle in the depths of the forests and create the Village. But the Village folk, before they were the Village folk, had had a hand in saving the Old Forest and the woods of Tuckborough during the Fell Winter. They had worked - all the Village people together, even the young ones - to help care for the sick and suffering during the Long Winter of 2758 and the awful famine of the Days of Dearth that followed. The Mistress had insisted that what food was given to the people of the Shire ought to be given over to the children first. Even the folk of Shore View - who had been barely tolerated before this - had pitched in, though they hadn't been hit by the Long Winter at all and goodness only knows how they heard of the Shire's troubles, being so out of the way and all.

It might have been a misplaced sense of gratitude because of these events that led two of the main families of Hobbit gentry to invite those Village folk to settle on their lands and then allowed them to stay despite everyone's protests, but no one really knew. No one really talked about it.

In the Village lived those people that the parents of little Hobbits everywhere told their children to stay far, far away from. The leader of these was Master Golodh and his wife, the Mistress Nimrohwen. The Mistress, at least, had some respect- she bred some of the best hunting dogs this side of the Brandywine, and ponies so gentle they could be ridden by the smallest hobbit lads and lasses. She also knew how to make medicines to cure the croup and consumption in children. She, at least, was considered tolerable. Whenever a wee Hobbit babe was nearing its time to be born, the Mistress was sent for. Whenever the cattle and livestock took sick, Nimrohwen was called. But none of the rest of the Village folk were welcome in decent society, not a one, especially not _that girl_.

The Village people only came into the towns to buy goods- sugar, salt, milk, and the like. Things they couldn't make themselves, since they kept no livestock except for horses and dogs, and one cow whose only purpose, as far as any Hobbit folks could see, was looking pretty in the pasture. No one knew how they got their goods all the way back to the Village without them spoiling, but they never complained, so folks didn't, either. Money was money and all that. And though some, like the Sackville-Bagginses, complained that the money paid went missing, and that all they found in their cash boxes later were leaves and pebbles, those complaints were few, and no one really wanted to try to haul the Village folk up before the Mayor. No one even dreamed of simply not selling to them after Camellia Baggins, nee Sackville, refused to give the Mistress her best jugs of cream and all her dairy curdled overnight. Bad luck seemed to follow the Villagers, and it was best not to cross them. They had uncanny ways about them.

It was also understood, though no one spoke of this, that you simply didn't mention the Village to outsiders, not even to the Big People, or Gandalf, that wandering man in ragged gray robes. You didn't mention the Village after dark, and you never went into the Old Forest at night unless need pressed you, and pressed hard. You certainly didn't go in when the moon was full, or dark, unless it was a matter of life or death. You didn't write about them in books or journals, or letters or records. Such things had a habit of disappearing. You didn't speak of them too often, and you never spoke ill of them unless you were indoors in daylight, with the doors firmly shut and the windows locked.

The people of the Shire had as little to do with the Village folk as they could, and half the time could scarcely recall there even was a Village, unless it was brought to their attention somehow. Such things were always very easily forgotten, and difficultly remembered, until one sat staring at one of the lovely Village girls or the sturdy Village lads at the marketplace for several minutes before remembering where they came from and why you shouldn't be caught with your eye upon them. And once the Village folk had gone, any witnesses were hard pressed to describe them with any kind of accuracy. No Hobbit had ever been to or near any of the three villages, except one Hobbit maiden of the Took family, and that had been when the first Village house was built, a very long time before the Village itself was even dreamed of. That house had belonged to Amaranth Took, who married a stranger from the wilds. That scandalous story from the ages still managed to cause quite a stir.

It was rare for a Village child to make friends with a Hobbit bairn. Even the smallest of the children from that accursed place seemed unnaturally adult, acting like shriveled old crones and craven old men inside the shells of small children. Once they reached their teens, the Villagers tended to act a bit better, but only a bit. Most folk tended to avoid them anyway. But once in a blue moon, a Hobbit lad might vanish into the forests of Buckland for a day or two, and spend the next few months mooning over naught and making calf-eyes at trees, and for that time, they could remember a certain lass from the Village at the drop of a hat. But after those months, the memories faded away almost entirely, and soon the events were forgotten. A lad could run into that very lass in the marketplace and give her nary a thought, unless she chose to bat her eyelashes and entrance him again.

And so it went on in this manner for decades upon decades; from more than a hundred years before the time of that cracked Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, and the time that he went out on his great and scandalous adventure with "those Dwarves," and "that Wizard" and beyond, until the time surrounding the splendid event of Bilbo Baggins' one-hundred-and-eleventh birthday. Things had seemed to die down a bit by that time regarding the Village, but unfortunately, peace and freedom from their machinations was not to be found just yet. At the time of Bilbo Baggins' grand Farewell Party, such events occurred in the Shire that it seemed as if the world remembered, and never again forgot, how it was that on the day that young Frodo Baggins' poor parents drowned in a boating accident when he himself was but a wee lad, he somehow managed to survive, though he had no idea how to swim.

It was the day that _that girl,_ Elluine Moraelin of the Village of the Old Forest ran away to Bag End.

_A note from Elfstan Fairbairn: Let it be known that it is only speculation that the Village maiden known as Elluine Moraelin had anything at all to do with either the War of the Ring, the overtaking of the Shire by cruel and evil Men, the Battle of Bywater, the Scouring of the Shire, or the disappearance of Frodo Baggins in the Year 1420, Shire Reckoning._

_A note from Meriadoc Fairbairn: Little was known before this concerning the maiden Elluine Moraelin, for she only resided in the public eye for ten years of her life. Her personal history has only recently been put together from her personal papers, as well as the accounts written by others such as Samwise Gamgee, Frodo Baggins, Lunecua Moraelin, and Boromir III, son of Haunmor._

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**_Disclaimer- _**I don't own Lord of the Rings, or any copyrighted stuff. I own the Liemuina, the villages, and all the other stuff you don't recognize at belonging to someone else.

Stay tuned for: **Chapter 1 - The Invitation - **_"From the folds of her dress she pulled out a long, glittering knife. With a cry of fear, he turned and ran so fast he tripped over his own two feet and went sprawling face first into the dirt." **And** _**Chapter 2 - Elluine - **_"Looking out at the surface, she tried to pierce the depths of the river with her crystal blue eyes, desperate to find any trace of the child. She'd waited for a breath, two breaths, a third, and then, terror surging in her heart at what she was about to do, she plunged straight into the water when the Hobbit hadn't come back up."_

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**_Facts of Canon and Text_**

- Camellia Baggins is Otho Sackville-Baggins; mother. The word _nee _shows that her maiden name is Sackville. Otho became a Sackville-Baggins as opposed to a plain Baggins because, through his mother, he was head of the Sackville family.

- the story of Amaranth Took and the "stranger from the wilds" that she married is recorded in _Old Tales of the Shire: the Wife of the Thain._

- Meriadoc Fairbairn is OC/Canon. **Canon:** Pippin's descendent commissioned the Thain's Book, the most accurate copy of the Red Book of Westmarch. Pippin's progeny are unnamed, save one - Faramir Took. Faramir married Goldilocks Gamgee. Her brother was named Merry. **Non-Canon:** She names her son Merry. **Canon:** Goldilocks' sister Elanor had a son, Elfstan Fairbairn. **Non-Canon:** I like to think that Elfstan Fairbairn and Merry Took were like Merry and Pippin of old. Elfstan had a son named Meriadoc. =)

-Boromir III is an OC, but he's only a source of information, not an actual occurring character in this story.

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My sources are:

Chronicles of Narnia: A Horse and His Boy - **book - (?)  
**Dracula by Bram Stoker - **book - (?)  
**Faery Tale by Raymond E Feist - **book - (!)  
**The Hobbit - **book - (!)  
**The Lord of the Rings Trilogy - **paperback, movie issue, boxed set - ****book - (!)  
**The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Ring **- movie  
**Lothiriel by Juno Magic **- fanfiction  
**Meredith Gentry Series by Laurell K. Hamilton - **book - (!)  
**Nevrast . Net - **website  
**Nanny McPhee - **movie - (?)  
**Nurse Matilda Trilogy by Christina Baird (I think)** - book - (?)  
**Old Tales of the Shire: the Wife of the Thain by LA Knight **- fanfiction  
**A Scandal In Bohemia by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - short story** - book - (#)  
**Terrier by Tamora Pierce** - book - (?)  
**Tuckborough . Net - **website  
**Wikipedia . Org - **website - (!)**

(?) - inspiration regarding style of narration.  
(!) - source of info Fae Races besides Elves. The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings are included in this category because of the characters of Beorn, Tom Bombadil, and Lady Goldberry.  
(#) - indicates source of practical information

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_**Translation of Elvish Words:**_

Ara - beside (1)  
Elwe - heart  
Gwen - maiden  
Luine - River  
Marta - Fey, fate, destiny, doom, wyrd (2)  
Pennais - Tales (2)  
Yavannie - September  
Yende - Daughter

_1 - Ara might not be Sindarin. I tried to find the Sindarin word for "besides," but all they had was a Quenya word, and then an unlabeled word that might've been Sindarin. I tried my best.  
__2 - Martapennas is a compound word made of the words marta (fate) and pennais (tales; stories). Together, they mean "Tales of Fate." That is, literally, "fate-tales."_

**_Translation of Hobbit Words:_**

Halimath - September  
Shirriff - the Hobit police force. It is actually spelled S-H-I-R-R-I-F-F  
Sterday - Saturday

_**People's Names and Their Meanings:**_

Elluine Moraelin - star-river dark-like  
Golodh - wisdom  
Nimrohwen - white horse lady

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**Concerning the Title:** The title of this story is _Martapennais X: Luineyende_. In English, that means _Tales of Fate X: Daughter of the Rivers._ X signifies that, unlike many of the other Martapennas, this story spans an incredible length of time (eighty-two - 82 - years) and so does not fit so neatly into a chronology. This story takes place: 3001 Third Age --- 120 Fourth Age. It also contains a flashback to 2080 of the Third Age. The secondary title, _Gwenelwe Nenara Dartha_, means _Beside the Water Waits the Heart of the Maiden._

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**_In the words of JunoMagic:  
_**Please feel free to leave a comment!

**_Anything at all:_** If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing. You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.  
_Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter._


	2. 01 The Invitation

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Chapter One

The Invitation

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Alfred Proudfoot absolutely did not want to be the one to deliver the invitation. What could Bilbo Baggins possibly have been thinking of, inviting not one, or two, or heaven forbid three, but in fact _all_ of the Village folk to his great, grand, one-hundred-and-eleventh birthday party? Those Village folk had no business being in Hobbiton, or in the Shire at all. Bad enough that the Mayor had decreed they be allowed to trade in Bywater and Hobbiton and other decent Hobbit towns. Bad enough that some of the Hobbit lads and lasses ran off for weeks on end with certain Village young people. The Village people weren't even Hobbits, though they did their wicked best to look just like respectable little people.

__

But no

, Alfred thought to himself as he came out into the clearing where the three houses that made up the Village stood.

_What little Hobbit lad would wear shoes?_

Hobbits had proper feet, needing no stockings, no socks, no hose, and certainly no boots or slippers. It gave his stomach a turn to see such diminutive creatures that looked so much like his people… but had those devilish pointy ears, some of them, and the queer way of staring at you as if they knew every deep, dark secret about you….

Shuddering, horrified, he looked between the three houses, and the group of about five Village children playing in the grass. He struggled with the urge to turn tail and run all the way back to Hobbiton and hide in his bed until next Saturday. How the devil was he to know where to take the letter? He'd never been here before! He hadn't even known there were houses here! Folk said the Village people lived in nasty holes in the ground, like serpents, not respectable Hobbit holes like normal folk, or lived in the trees like Elves. But this letter was addressed:

__

Mistress Nimrohwen and co.  
Moon House  
The Village, the Forests of Buckland

The Moon House? Which house was that? For there were no "moon" houses, or even gray or silver houses. All three houses were white with colored trim- bright, mockingly cheerful yellow for the one on the right, a deep, royal blue on the left, and the house in the middle was trimmed in black. Which house was he supposed to go to? And for mercy's sake, how long was he going to be forced to remain here?

Heart pounding, breath shuddering out of him in petrified gasps and wheezes, Alfred took a few hesitant strides across the soft grass and into the dirt clearing where the Village houses lay waiting. He stopped there, confusion twisting his face. He shouldn't have been here, shouldn't have taken Will Whitfoot's assignment to go into the Forest and deliver this dratted letter. He ought to leave now and forget the letter, just forget about all of it. Lie and say he delivered it, that the Village folk had refused to come. His grip on the envelope tightened until the paper wrinkled underneath his fingers. He needed to get out of here, he had to run, run now, before….

"Excuse me," a soft voice murmured from Alfred's elbow, and he was so shaken he let out a small cry and stumbled backward. "I do apologize," the voice replied. It belonged to a little boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. "I didn't realize you would be so frightened." The Village child's gray-green eyes shone with an infectious, gleeful light that made the poor Post-Hobbit recoil in horror. The boy grinned, seemingly ignorant of the fear he incited in the other creature. The child only asked, "Are you perhaps looking for the Moon House?"

"H-how did you know?"

The boy's delighted grin melted into a gentle, understanding smile and the young one inclined his silver blonde head ever so slightly. The Hobbit couldn't help but think there was something incredibly, deceptively sinister about that little childish smile. He expected to see a flash of razor sharp fangs, but none was forthcoming. Alfred shuddered again as the urge to flee began building inside him.

"It's the house with the pale blue door and the royal blue shutters," the Village boy said into the strained silence and pointed at the house on the right. "Mistress Nimrohwen should be in the back garden with Breeyid and Tauriel. You want to watch out for those two- they're not quite in control yet."

"Not in… in control?"

The boy nodded solemnly. "Something might happen."

"Happen?" The Hobbit asked with a choked squeak of terror. The boy nodded again.

"I'd watch out if I were you. Especially the plants."

Shaking in his skin, wondering what the boy meant by "not quite in control yet" and "watching out," and especially the child's comments about the plants, Alfred timidly approached the house and went around to the garden in the back. Luckily, he didn't actually have to get near the lush greenery growing up and over the white picket fence. An older woman- whom he knew from the time she had tended him during a long-ago childhood illness to be the Mistress- and two young girls sat in the dirt by the fence, but well outside of its vernal grip. The girls were bent over small stoneware bowls, their flaming red and earth brown curls hanging in their faces, grinding up some strange thing into a powder. Beside the Mistress, who reclined on a worn wooden chair, was a large, wooden bucket almost as big as a Hobbit. Inside the bucket was a mass of squirming, brown fur. It took Alfred a moment to realize the mass of fur was squealing. When the Mistress lifted up a fat bundle of brown fur by one long, skinny pink tail from the bucket, the poor Hobbit realized what he was looking at.

It was a humongous bucket of live rats.

He glanced back at the two girls grinding away at their little bowls. They were covered in dried black slime. Could it be… blood? The image of live rodents being pounded to bloody pulp, their bones ground to dust, superimposed itself behind his eyes, inside his mind. He began to shake violently and had to grit his teeth to keep them from chattering as he saw the Mistress stroke the rat's plump belly. Its tiny, pink claws flexed and raked at the air.

The terrified messenger pulled the envelope out of his satchel with shaking fingers and stuttered, "Excu-ex-excuse m-m-me, M-mistress-"

"That man has something for you, Mistress," the girl with the long, wild red hair, who was wearing a grass green dress of threadbare cotton, told the older woman, tugging absently on the Mistress's sleeve with the hand that had been holding the bowl. Without looking up, she picked up a small stick and scratched a rune in the dirt. Was she crafting some sort of magical devilry? Alfred wondered, watching with sick fascination as the girl went back to grinding up whatever was in her bowl, her pink tongue tucked between her lips at the corner of her mouth.

The older woman looked up from the brown rat's black button gaze, and Alfred found himself transfixed by the strangest eyes he'd ever seen, eyes he vaguely remembered from when he was young, eyes that glittered in a slender, feral face like diamonds in the light. At first, Alfred thought her eyes were perfectly colorless, empty and soulless. He remembered those eyes from his childhood, when he'd been struck by an almost fatal case of the measles. Her eyes had been like jagged crystal knives cutting into him then, slicing into him to find the disease that sickened him and destroy it. He remembered almost nothing about that time except those brutal, chilling eyes. For a moment, they were the same eyes as they had been then, but as his feet drew him nearer despite his brain's frantic, silent protests, he saw that they were now the palest, creamy gray, like the sky as the world is blanketed in snow in the night. Her hair was the color of fresh, white snowfall, with a slight silvering at her temples. Her business-like, homespun dress was dark gray. She was barefoot, but her feet were as dainty and hairless as a human girl's.

In her hands, she cradled that rat.

"I will take the letter. Who is it from, may I ask??" Listening to her voice was like being drowned in white goose feathers. Alfred choked on them and had to clear his throat several times before he could answer her.

"F-f-from F-Frodo Baggins," he managed to croak, and he sort of shoved the letter at her, a soft whimper escaping from between his clenched lips. When her fingers brushed against his as she took the missive from him, like the silken ridges of a goose feather, he let out a startled cry and jerked back.

She seemed not to notice, or, if she did notice, not to care. She transferred the envelope to the hand holding the rat and said only, "Very well, then. You're no longer needed, Postman." And from the folds of her dress she pulled out a long, glittering knife.

With a cry of fear, the messenger turned and ran so fast he tripped over his own two feet and went sprawling face first into the dirt. When one of the children playing got up as if to help him- that same boy, with his sinister smile- Alfred yelped in terror and leapt to his feet as if struck by lightning, running out of the Village and into the Forests of Buckland.

"Well, really," Mistress Nimrohwen sniffed delicately, her pointy nose wrinkling with slight, sophisticated distaste. She brushed wisps of moon-pale hair from her crystal eyes and slit the envelope open with the silver knife. "You'd think he'd never seen a letter opener before. Carlas," she called to the little boy. The child came over to the fence and leaned on it, his attention focused on the Mistress.

"Yes'm?"

"Go and make sure he doesn't go where he's not welcome," the Mistress replied, her voice icy. The boy grinned, nodded, and trotted off to do as she'd bid. Turning back to her two charges, Nimrohwen growled, raising the hairs on the red haired girl's neck. Irritated, the Village Mistress snarled, "Those Hobbits have about as much sense as a brained goose. They should all drown and rid the world of much of its stupidity."

"You know what they say about us," the girl with red hair, Breeyid, said softly.

Her eyes, the color of rich, fertile soil and the emerald darkness of pine needles in summer, were too bright, as if she were holding back tears. Breeyid was young, less than fifty years old, the second youngest of all the Liemuina, the Hidden People, in the Village. She wasn't used to people shunning her simply because she looked different. Those few of her own Race that avoided her weren't doing so to be unkind. She was not in control of her inherent power yet and was thus considered ill-suited company for young Liemuina with more self-control. But the Hobbits were simply superstitious and cruel.

"We're worse than the Wizards, or so the little people say. We'll use black magic to curse their unborn to deformity and death-"

"We'll give them a changeling child, you mean," the other girl, who had to have been the maiden Carlas had called Tauriel, laughed meanly. It was clear she didn't truly care what the Hobbits or anyone else would or could say about her or her kind. "As if any of the Liemuina do that any more. The use of changeling children was outlawed centuries ago." Her tone of voice made the tackiness, the utter classlessness, of kidnapping mortal infants obvious to even the slowest of creatures.

"We'll wither their crops with our trooping-" Breeyid continued, ignoring her companion, this time sounding almost a little wistful. Breeyid was one of the Glittering Throng, and they "trooped," or danced, in the fields and meadows and such rather often. Or they were supposed to. The Liemuina didn't dance where they could be caught by mortals any longer. They refused to even dance with the Eldar in those dark days.

"There's only twenty-three of us!" Tauriel cried. "How much damage could we do if we do start dancing?"

"Oh, don't forget that we'll sicken their cattle-"

"As if any of us are small enough to shoot the Legotitta Queni's darts," Tauriel retorted.

The Legotitta Queni, the Little Green Ones, were notorious for shooting cattle with poison-dipped darts, the venom seeping into the blood of the oxen, the cows, the horses, the sheep, and then the animals sickened, withered, and died. But the Legotitta Queni were smaller even than the Liemuina that were Hobbit sized, too small for anyone else but those blessed with the gift of the butterfly-like Demi-form to use their weapons.

"And we bake tangles and knots in their daughters' and wives' and sisters' hair-" This time, there was definite malice in Tauriel's voice. Rincamarta knots were a punishment that was often visited upon those maids that had offended Tauriel and a few others, such as Vilyanna, the Vilmarta maid who cut her hair to her chin and styled it with a strange jelly to make ebony spikes and sable peaks that fell over sky blue eyes.

"Only when they're acting the part of sluts and whores," another voice commented, and the second oldest of the Village girls, Erynmir, appeared from the edges of the forest that lovingly embraced the furthest end of the back garden. She seemed to glide forward over the grass and dirt, her black cloak picking up inches of dust at the hem. "And they deserve it then."

"Oh?" Mistress Nimrohwen murmured casually, and set the rat back in the bucket. It poked its nose out over the bucket's rim, and she poked it with the tip of her finger so that it went back to resting on top of its brethren. To Erynmir, she went on, "And who has been baking sluttish hairs into the Rincamarta's knots, Erynmir? Not you, I hope, or any other Liemuina maiden in this Village, for it is forbidden of the Village people to play the part of the Hidden People outside of the forests of Buckland. Surely you would not risk Queen Nenmirel's wrath, despite your position at court."

"Never mind that," Erynmir replied waspishly. The other two girls tried not to notice the faint blush tingeing Erynmir's pale cheeks and creeping up into the tips of her delicately pointed ears. "What's that letter?"

"It seems," the Mistress replied, sounding suddenly incredibly miffed, and not at her charges, "as if we have been remembered. Well, one of us has, and by her all of us. We have here an invitation, addressed through me to the most unlikely of creatures, and the sender states that by securing herself an invitation, this member of the Village has indeed procured invitations to us all- to Mr. Bilbo Baggins' one-hundred-and-eleventh birthday party of all things. Can you imagine? What could she possibly have done that the Maias' magic didn't hold? _What did she do?_"

"Who?" Breeyid asked curiously. "Who are you talking about? Does the invitation actually have… have her name on it?" She added, with a little shudder of fear. "He doesn't know her name, does he? Whoever it is?"

"Oh!" Tauriel cried suddenly, grinning. She'd gotten up out of the grass, her brown wool dress soaked with mud at its hem, and she'd come to stand behind Mistress Nimrohwen. When she'd gone seemingly unnoticed in this position for several seconds, she'd peeked over the Mistress's shoulder to see the words printed on the snowy white stock-paper of the invitation. "You two will never guess. Never, never ever, not in all the centuries of all the ages of all the worlds. So tell me, gooses, which of the other geese was foolish enough to do something to get herself specifically invited to a hobbit party, do you think? What ill-bred goose do we know who's foolish enough to do something so wicked?"

"Well, it couldn't have been me, I'd never do something so pathetically humane for one of _them _that _they'd _remember_ me_," Erynmir snapped, picking up her skirts out of the dirt. For a Cenmarta, she was incredibly anti-dirt. "The only person I could possibly think of who would even think of doing such a thing is... is... that little wretch! She couldn't have… that stupid, stupid girl! That _idiot_! What could she possibly have been thinking?! How did those Hobbits get her name?! Her true name, mind you, the one in the Elder Speech! She gave it away! She told them… she's so stupid!" Then with something akin to black rage, she snarled, _"I'll wring her scrawny little neck!_"

Both Tauriel and Breeyid were so startled by Erynmir's acidic venom that they jumped, Breeyid spilling the ground-up elanor seeds- what had really been sitting in her little stoneware bowl, and not powdered rat skulls. Sighing, she simply spread the powder into the earth, annoyed. She had needed those! The Mistress was going to show her something with them!

"It's not _that_ bad, Erynmir, surely," Tauriel snapped, irritated. The _Tavari_ despised hysterics and unreasonable bouts of temper. Everyone around her was so quick in their moods and dispositions anyway, but she hated to be near someone who went from tranquil calm to raging adolescent temper tantrum so blasted quickly. "_Calm_ yourself, you _hysterical_ infant."

"How dare you speak to me like that, you… you harridan!" Erynmir snarled.

Tauriel squared her shoulders. She didn't look it, but she was more than five times Erynmir's age. Her race, the _Tavari_, bound as they were to the forest, matured much more slowly than the _Cenmarta_, Erynmir's people. But Erynmir, for all her youth, was the stronger of the two, and both knew it. That was why Tauriel didn't try to square off against the younger girl. With the entire Forest of Buckland probably at Erynmir's beck and call- though Tauriel couldn't be sure of that- the _Tavari_ didn't want to chance going up against the future Wood Witch of Buckland. It might have been difficult, or it might have been suicide. The _Tavari_ couldn't be sure either way.

"You are behaving like a brat," the wood spirit replied calmly, and walked back to Breeyid's side, though she didn't sit down beside her. From the way Tauriel stood beside the red haired girl, it was clear there was a camaraderie there, even if it wasn't quite friendship. Erynmir glared at them both, irritated at the way Breeyid glanced up and over at Tauriel as if for confirmation. Apparently the little redheaded half-breed was going to back the wood sprite up if there was a fight between Erynmir and the wood sprite. As if those two could stand up to her.

"You don't understand what it is that she's done! She's done something to make herself known and remembered by the Hobbits. Already, one law broken. It must have been something incredibly large for him to remember. She may have even saved his life at one point. That's against the law, too, Tauriel," Erynmir reminded her forcefully.

"It's against the law to save the life of a member of the other Races?" Breeyid asked, visibly disturbed. "That's insane! How could we stand by and let someone die simply because-"

"Think about it, Breeyid," Tauriel murmured. "Saving someone's life. You're responsible forever more for that person, unless they repay the debt in equal measure. How can that happen? We are the Hidden People. How can we take responsibility for those who we cannot interact with? And how can they ever repay the debt they owe you when you save their life, unless they in turn save your life? And how can that happen, if we never interact? And it is forbidden by our laws to have dealings such as those with the other Races. We have special permission from the monarchy to have business dealings and trade with the Hobbits, because of where we live. But that permission only extends so far."

"_Exactly_, you little twit," Erynmir snapped. "She's broken serious laws by attracting this kind of attention. And who knows whether it was just the one Hobbit, or several, that know of us now? The magic on our people protects us from being remembered, and usually even from being seen. But once something pierces that protection, the danger comes. Part of the reason the Hobbits have never driven us out of the Forest is because the Thain and the Master of Buckland have granted us sanctuary on their lands. Before the Fell Winter, we lived here in total secrecy. The descendents of the Wintersmith line were the only ones allowed to go into the townships because they _look_ like the Hobbits. But the main reason we have never been attacked is because most of the time the Hobbits_ don't remember we're here_. Do you understand? Something has to remind them of our existence first, or they forget we're even here. If you save someone's life, they will always remember you, unless it was an infant or something like that, someone who wouldn't remember you anyway. And if they remember us, they will hunt us down and they will most likely try to kill us. Even if they don't, they'll drive us out of the Forest. This is the last safe place those of us who require training can go. We're all in danger because of what she's done!"

Erynmir took a menacing step forward, and Breeyid shrank back.

Tauriel sighed, and shoved her hair out of her face. As much as she hated to admit it, the future Wood Witch of Buckland was right. The Liemuina who had somehow attracted Hobbit attention had unwittingly endangered them all.

"Who?" Breeyid's voice was a tiny, quivering whisper. Erynmir in a temper like this was not one to be crossed. But who could have done this? "Who was it?"

"Elluine Moraelin."

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Glossary:

Cenmarta - earth fated; fated of the earth  
Tavari - female wood spirit. In this instance, a dryad. A male wood spirit is called a _tavaro._

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Names and their meanings:

Breeyid - it's the proper pronunciation of Brighid, but I didn't want to confuse people. Brighid was the goddess of the hearth, as well as the arts. The hearth is a very magical place, because it's where 2 elements meet- earth and fire. This describes Breeyid pretty well, as we'll see later, and in her own story, which will come out once I reach that point in my chronology in this story.

Carlas Iavas- Red-Leaf Autumn  
Elluine Moraelin - Star-river dark-lake  
Erynmir - jewel of the forest  
Nimrohwen - white horse maiden  
Tauriel - bastardization of 2 words that mean forest maiden

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My sources are:

The Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis - book  
Faery Tale - Raymond E. Feist - book  
The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien - book  
Ironside - Holly Black - book  
The Lord of the Rings trilogy - movie release edition, boxed set - JRR Tolkien - book  
The Meredith Gentry Series - Laurell K. Hamilton - book  
Nevrast . net - elvish dictionary - website  
The Spiderwick Chronicles - Holly Black and Tony DiTerlizzi (I think) - book  
Tithe - Holly Black - book  
Tuckborough . net - Tolkien compendium - website  
Valiant - Holly Black - book  
Wikipedia - website

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References to other works:

1 - "And we bake tangles and knots in their daughters' and wives' and sisters' hair... Only when they're acting the part of sluts and whores."

This is a reference to Mercutio's monologue in _Romeo and Juliet_ about Queen Mab. I forgot which line or what scene, but it's in there.

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Facts of the Canon and the Non-Canon:

Will Whitfoot was the Mayor, as well as the Post Master, at the time of the War of the Ring. Since they never said who was the Mayor during the time of the Farewell Party, or even how old Will is, I just extended his... campaign? I don't know what the word is.

There is no actual Hobbit named Alfred Proudfoot. He is an OC character.

This story starts on July 30, a little less than 2 months before the Farewell Party.

For the story behind the Wintersmith bloodline, see my profile, and look for the story called "_Old Tales of the Shire: Wife of the Thain_." The Wintersmith line is descended from a Took woman and a Liemuina lord.

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In the words of JunoMagic:

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Please feel free to leave a comment!

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Anything at all:

If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	3. 02 Elluine

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At the bottom of this chapter:

Disclaimer  
Sources  
References to Other Literature  
Names and Translations  
Author's Note

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Chapter Two  
Elluine

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Elluine Moraelin lay upon the banks of the Withywindle River, the waters of the river still bitingly cold even in the height of summer as it rushed over her bare feet, the warm, soft wind out of the South blowing across her face as she stared up into the bright blue sky. The mud of the river banks seeped slowly but steadily into the cotton of her patched, too-large dress until the dark, earthy wetness of it was like a cool salve against the welts on her skin.

Any mortal child, or even an Elf, would have done anything to avoid putting pressure on open wounds like that, but she knew she'd be in far greater pain, well close to agony, if she lay on her belly and the wind were allowed to snatch and grab at the most delicate and injured parts of her, scraping every inch of raw flesh until she would weep with the pain. Instead of torturing herself that way, she preferred the soothing touch of the dark, river mud, though she knew without a doubt that she'd have to take several dunkings into the river to clean her wounds, not to mention her dress, or Mistress Nimrohwen would have a screaming fit about the state of her clothes and threaten to lock her in her room again.

As for her wounds, well... Anarmacil had told her brutal horror stories about soldiers and some of the great warriors of the court who were foolish enough at one point or another to let dirt, earth, and mud sit in wounds long enough to rot the flesh. She didn't want to even contemplate the possibility of something like that happening to her, especially on her back. It might spread and destroy the most important, secret, delicate parts of her body. She needed to keep that part of herself secret and safe.

Elluine wondered briefly if Anarmacil had told the Mistress that she was coming to the Withywindle like she had asked him to. You never could tell with Anar- sometimes he'd do it, and sometimes he'd get distracted with teaching one of the younger boys some random skill, or casually flirting with a pretty girl, doing a random chore, or trying to set something on fire- or not set in on fire, as the case might be. You just never knew. But she had to hope that he'd done what she'd asked because none of the other Village children would, for love or money. Except maybe Breeyid- whose name wasn't really Breeyid, but sounded like it, who'd been born of a mortal mother in Rohan and had a Rohirric name. Because of Breeyid's origins, she was more sympathetic to Elluine than most. But the Nenmarta hadn't spoken to Breeyid, so she didn't have the earth-fated girl to count on. If Anar didn't tell the Mistress where Elluine was, she might get into some trouble.

Ah, well, getting a chance to see the river rushing along its banks and casting rainbow sprays of soft mist was worth getting a whipping on top of a the whipping she'd received this morning, even if her back didn't agree with her heart at that moment. The river always made her feel better. It was almost a part of her. She'd been in the Village for so long, and she missed Aelinonen Sisiliel, the lake the Liemuina capital city was built upon. In the Glittering City, Othrond Silivren, there were parks with little rivers, ponds, pools, streams, brooks, and creeks. The city, massive and sprawled out as it was, was home to so much water. She needed to be near water, for her health as well as her sanity. It was part of being Nenmarta. To forbid a Liemuina who was fated of the water to be near the very element that was an integral part of her spirit… it was like caging a wild thing, clipping the wings of a great hawk or eagle, enslaving a free creature and forcing it into bondage.

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek as she thought with a heavy heart of Aelinonen Sisiliel. It was on the shores of the lake, where the river Lhunagar melded with the shining waters, that she and her siblings had grown up. The Withywindle could not compare to the great river back home, but it was better than nothing.

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Anarmacil stood watching the Village from the boughs of one of the surrounding oak trees. He watched as the Master read a leather bound book while lounging upon a chair on the balcony of the Sun House, where the lads all roomed. He observed the Mistress speaking animatedly to Erynmir, the girl who would one day grow up to become the next Wood Witch of Buckland, and the girls- Breeyid, whose real name was Brighid, a child of Rohan, and the _Tavari_ called Tauriel, who was slowly edging away from the garden and towards the forest, straight for the tree in whose foliage he hid. Most of the other girls, for some reason, seemed to be skulking inside the Moon House. He had to wonder, suddenly, where the mad wind child, Vilyanna, was hiding. She and Erynmir spent so much time together. He didn't trust it.

The shout of "wretch" wrenched the youth back to his spying upon the Mistress and the detestable but somehow not detested Lady Erynmir. Now the Mistress Nimrohwen's movements were violent and furious. Anarmacil felt the soft hairs on the back of his neck stand straight on end. With just a touch of power and some expended energy put towards focusing his senses, he could eavesdrop easily on the conversation. It was a gift he'd picked up from his twin sister, her affinity for air, wind, and sky coming much in handy.

But if he did try to listen in, Arthur would know, and that would simply be embarrassing.

As if on cue, the half-Liemuina warrior dropped down onto the branch next to the one Anarmacil perched upon.

Arthur was incredibly short for one of the King's Corbies- they had a height requirement of six foot three, and Arthur was five foot even. He was even shorter than Anarmacil himself, and the warrior was fully grown. Anarmacil was not even close. It was lucky that Liemuina children matured so slowly, or someone would have remarked upon Arthur's height long ago. It was odd for an adult to be present in the Village, other than the Master and his wife. The fresh, youthful cast to Arthur's face and the slimness of his body made him look like a youth, especially in combination with his height. He was a descendent of the Wintersmith family. He'd been raised for twenty years by the Took family as a changeling child, even though it was against the law to leave Liemuina children with other Races now. The Queen of Shadows had interceded on Arthur Wintersmith's behalf, so that he could get to know one half of his heritage. Sometimes, Anarmacil thought that had been a bad idea.

"You won't eavesdrop, will you? It is rather rude, Anar, sir," Arthur murmured.

Sighing, Anar shook his head. The half-Hobbit, half-Liemuina had such strange ideas about what was proper and what wasn't. It might have been his Hobbit-upbringing. He'd been raised as a Hobbit for the first twenty years of his life, after all. Then he'd put himself in the category of "Took lads who run off on adventures." He'd just never gone back to them.

"Sir, the _Tavari_ called Tauriel Yavannamirerel, to see you."

Anarmacil jumped when he realized that Tauriel had been sitting there for who knew how long, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Her forest gaze bore into his in that disconcerting way the _Tavari_ had, as if their eyes were liquid gold and molten, green life blazing with some strange light. She leaned back against the trunk of the oak, pressing her cheek to the bark, but always keeping her eyes upon him. Her hair slipped across her face to curtain her eyes. She kept staring at him.

"What?" Anar cried defensively, brushing ineffectually at his golden brown hair. Did his bangs have something in them besides leaves and twigs? He scrubbed at his tanned cheek. Was there a smudge of dirt or something? Was his shirt ripped?

Tauriel continued to stare at him. He hated it when people did that. He was tired of being stared at. The only benefit to this was that no one in the Village except the Master and Mistress, as well as Arthur, knew who he was. The Liemuina his own age, at least, had no reason to stare at him except for the normal youthful excuses- spinach in the teeth, dirt on the face, torn clothes. It still made him flinch to see those big, woodsy eyes on him.

_"What?" _He demanded again.

After agonizing, self-conscious moments, the _Tavari_ replied softly, "Erynmir is going to fetch Elluine for the Mistress. If you know where she is, you'd best grab her before Erynmir gets her hands on her. You know what Erynmir's likely to do to her."

He did know. Elluine, despite being his only real friend in the Village, was of the worst kind of breeding, and everyone knew it. Lacking the clout that went with his position at court, which he had done his best to forget and to hide from everyone else, his friendship with the Nenmarta was not enough to protect her. Back at court, before he'd known her, he knew enough to know that she had been called the Ugly Duckling, the White Crow, the Carrion-Swan, and the Black Begetting. There were others like her, but her mother had been powerful, and so she had been thrust into the court's eye more than the others. But at the same time, Ellie's mother, Lunecua, had been one of the Corbies, and could protect her child- up to a point. But Erynmir… Erynmir had more cause to hate than the others. Gifted with far more power than the talent-less Elluine could ever hope to have, but orphaned at a young age, the product of her mother's ravishment, she had been ridiculed and tormented far more than the ill-bred Nenmarta maiden, lacking parents or siblings to stand up for her. Both having been sent to the Village, though for different reasons, now the aggression between them was rising high. Eventually, it could be dangerous, if not fatal. He didn't trust Erynmir not to seriously hurt Ellie without supervision.

Which meant he had to go find the girl himself.

Grumbling to himself, Anar found that he had to abandon his perch much sooner than he'd anticipated. Unfortunately, the Mistress caught him at it before he could blend into the forest's shadows and escape, and snatched him by his sleeve, though she was much gentler about it than she might have been to other boys. He turned to her, absently tugging on the silver ring in his left ear, the deformed one that ended in a strange point. He knew it was a deformity because his father had shaped it himself with a knife when Anar had been a baby. His sister had the same thing on her right ear. He hated that he couldn't seem to stop fiddling with the ear ring whenever he grew agitated or nervous, but perhaps the Mistress would pick up on his eagerness to leave from the gesture.

When the Mistress was finished speaking to him on the subject of the wayward girl Elluine, his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were mottled white. Reminding himself that a man of the Carlothel family did not strike a woman in anger- even if she was a vile, prejudiced, old harridan- he took himself off to find the missing girl.

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The missing girl was currently waist deep in water as she lounged upon the muddy bank of the river, feeling the ice cold water rushing over her body until her skin was numb with it. Eventually, when she'd gotten used to the chilliness, she'd plunge in and go swimming. She loved this place, thought it absolutely perfect. It reminded her so much of home, so much of the river and the lake. She wished the Village was on the bank of the river. She wished she could swim in this water every day, instead of sneaking off every once in a while. This place was special to her… so very special, for so many reasons.

One of them was this: it was near this exact spot on these banks that she had first met the young hobbit known as Frodo Baggins.

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She had been dozing on the grassy banks near the edge of the wood in the height of summer. The fat, lazy bees had buzzed and swarmed, the butterflies had winged their way through the wildflowers, and the Sun, rather than being overpoweringly intense in its blazing heat, had been tempered by the thin blanket of wispy clouds covering Her fiery face. But she had woken because the smooth, sweet, lullaby-like current of the river that had lulled her into such sleepiness had been disrupted by gurgles and splashing and cries of fear.

He had been floating along in the water, clutching to a piece of driftwood in the river- what had looked rather like a lone fragment from of a small pleasure boat, just big enough for a tiny Hobbit child to keep afloat on- and the boy was struggling desperately to keep his head above the water enough to draw breath. She would have left him completely alone- the Liemuina did not associate with the other Races any more than was needed, to protect their existence- but then he'd fallen off the driftwood, slipping beneath the water and before she'd taken a breath or formed a thought, she'd been knee deep in the river, feeling the compelling strength of the current, brushing against her legs, swirling her dress on the water. Looking out at the surface, she tried to pierce the depths of the river with her crystal blue eyes, desperate to find any trace of the child.

She'd waited for a breath, two breaths, a third, and then, terror surging in her heart at what she was about to do, she plunged straight into the water when the Hobbit hadn't come back up.

Swimming through the frigidly cold water, she had reached out her hands, groping almost blindly through the darkness. _Help me!_ She had cried silently to the unforgiving, chilly river. The water had always been her friend and protector. It was part of her, what made her Nenmarta! Surely it would help her now? It had to help her! The child was in danger! _I can't see him, help me, please!_

She'd groped for him, her hands thrashing through the water as she kicked with her feet, her skirts desperately trying to tangle around her legs, and when she thought that surely he must have drowned, succumbing to the river's icy embrace, a hand had caught her wrist, and she'd grabbed him, held on, and kicked her way to the surface, breaking through the water and gasping for air..

"St-stupid H-Hobbits," she'd managed to sputter, spitting out the bitter, earthy water. "What in Nessa's name were you _doing_ on the river, anyway? Hobbits don't belong on the water! You could've drowned!" She wanted to shake him, but needed her strength for swimming. The Hobbit boy hadn't said anything, even when they'd made it back to the shore. He'd been trying to get his breath back, choking and coughing. Elluine had said briskly, "Come on, the river will want her water back. Spit it out, that's it. Just don't swallow anymore."

And he had spat it up, coughing up the dirty river water. She'd hauled him up onto the bank, letting him relearn the art of breathing, and then had tried to slip away back into the woods, but he'd caught the hem of her dress. Since she'd been more interested in playing in the mud and looking for water weeds, she'd worn a simple, homespun dress instead of her insubstantial spider silks. Unlike the silks, her plain cotton dress hadn't slipped through his grubby, wet fingers.

"Who are you? What's your name? You're not a Hobbit. Where did you come from?"

What harm could it do? She had wondered. He would never remember her. The ancient magic that protected the Liemuina from being remembered and recorded would keep her safe. Why not tell him her name? And he looked so pale and wet shivering there, and they were so far away from anywhere but the Village. He could get lost trying to find his home….

Her concern for the child had ended up with the two of them camped out on the bank of the Withywindle for the night, and then she had escorted the child back to Hobbit country, back to Brandy Hall. When they had come to the outer edge of the forest surrounding the homestead of the Brandybucks, she had turned to go, and he had grabbed the hem of one long sleeve and tugged, hard. It was an old dress, a worn, ancient blue creation that had once belonged to a woman the Liemuina only called the Daughter of the Forest, and it had torn in his grip, leaving him with a scrap of cloth in his tightly clenched fist.

"Don't go," he murmured. "Ellie, don't go."

She had been tempted to use what powers she possessed on the child, to make him think she was still here even as she escaped into the forest. But it wasn't necessary. He was only a little boy, and she could escape his grasp easily enough. He would never remember her. Any sorrow he might feel at her parting would be as fleeting as the wind in moments. Still… precautions aught to be taken. By rights, she should never have saved his life at all, the poor thing.

"I must go," she had murmured back. She turned to leave again, but turned back to him. Cupping the back of his curly, dark head, she bent down and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. "Be well, little one. No more playing on the river, understand?" She let go of him and began backing away, smiling a little. He made as if to follow her. She called to him, "Go to your family, Frodo Baggins. Don't tell anyone of me, do you promise?"

"I promise," he replied, as she slipped away into the forests of Buckland……

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She blinked, startled back into the present by the alighting of a flock of ducks upon the water. They floated down the river, occasionally flapping their brown and black wings or flipping a webbed foot to help them steer. One of them, a tiny duckling, tried to dive down into the water, but wasn't big enough. It kicked its little webbed feet and wiggled, trying to break into the depths of the river, but gave up and flopped right side up again, making Elluine smile.

Ducks. She loved ducks. They were so routine, so regular in their behaviors. She loved swans and crows even better- after all, was her mother not once a member of the King's Corbies? And her brother Arvil had become one of the Queen's Swans- but ducks held a special place in her heart. They were very common, unattractive birds. No one ever watched a duck to see its beautiful, snowy plumage or its glossy dark feathers. They were always ignored, unless someone wanted them for dinner.

They had much in common, Elluine and ducks. She, too, was often ignored, unless someone wanted her for something. She was an "ill favored child," according to Mistress Nimrohwen, denied much under the laws of her people, and very few of the older Liemuina in the Village could be persuaded to be anything but coldly civil to her, unless the preferred emotion presented was blazingly furious. Her breeding deemed her a second class citizen at best, and even then, while away from the Glittering City and the court, she didn't have her parents' protection from cruelty. The only reason she had been sent here was to stop people from attacking her, and in turn, using her as an excuse to fight her brothers, who were otherwise protected by their status as royal guards. Otherwise, she would have remained the Black Swan of the Glittering Throng. Now she was nothing but Elluine Moraelin.

"Elluine is in dire straits, it seems," a sniping voice hissed from the trees.

The young woman sat up upon the bank and turned to glance over her shoulder. Catching sight of a familiar, incredibly unwanted face, she sighed and said, "What do you want, Erynmir?"

"Well, _morontiriel_," the other young woman murmured "black begetting" as sweetly as if she'd said "fairest flower," or "sweetest child," or some other gentle praise. "Apparently someone is in a lot of trouble. What could you have done to attract the attention of a rich hobbit gentleman, hmmm? Mistress Nimrohwen is most displeased." The raven haired, emerald eyed beauty stared at Elluine with glittering menace. The hand-shaped scar on the young woman's face stretched, twisting the otherwise lush, red mouth into a blood-red snarl.

"I haven't done anything!" Elluine cried. "What do you mean, attracted attention? Who's attention? I don't have the slightest idea, what you mean, a rich, Hobbit gentleman?"

"Rescued any half-drowned hobbits lately, _wretch_?" This time, the venom in Erynmir's voice was like a slap across the face.

"No, not recently... but... he couldn't possibly have remembered... it was over twenty years ago! He couldn't have remembered me! The ancient magic..." Elluine trailed off at the glimmering hate in the other girl's eyes. "He shouldn't have remembered me..."

"Well, the fact is that he did, and because of you, the entire Village has been invited to some stupid little 'party,' and you know the laws about invitations. We have to go now. There's no choice. Honestly, you little moon-kissed bastard witch, I ought to beat some sense-"

"That's enough, Erynmir Laurealas."

It was with no little relief that Elluine saw Anarmacil step out of the forest, looking ruffled and handsome, with leaves in his windblown hair. He scratched absently at one pointed ear, tugging the silver ring, and said, "Mistress Nimrohwen wants to see you, Ellie. About the Hobbit. Frodo Baggins."

The Nenmarta maiden went utterly still. Frodo? They wanted to talk to her about Frodo?! How did they find out? She'd never told anyone! No one had seen her. He hadn't remembered her. How had this happened? What was going on? She saw Anar looking at her with his summer night eyes flecked with gold, something akin to grief in his face and in his gaze. Why was he looking at her like that?

"But, Anar, I-"

"You must come now," Anarmacil said stiffly, holding out a hand to haul her to her feet. When she rose, she let her feet squelch in the sucking, dark mud, feeling the cool wetness of it caress her bare skin. The wind snatched at her soaking dress, and at the soft gossamer flesh that burned from the recent whipping. She looked back over her shoulder, yearning in her clear, crystal blue eyes as she gazed at the water and the ducks swimming calmly about. She must have made some sound, some slight movement, because Anarmacil took hold of her arm and said firmly, "Now, Ellie."

"I need to wash my wounds," she protested. "I've been lying in the mud-"

"Now, Elluine Moraelin."

She recoiled. He had never called her by her full name since the day he'd met her, covered in mud and hiding by the river from Mistress Nimrohwen and the older girls who had demanded she put on shoes and a proper gown and comb the tangles from her hair. He'd found her in the mud, and talked to her for a time, and then gone back to the Mistress in the Village and said words that he would never repeat to Elluine, and the tangles had remained, the shoes had been discarded, and the gowns had been placed back in their respective wardrobes and chests. She did not know what power Anar had over the Mistress, but it didn't matter to her. He was her friend.

Since then, Anarmacil had never called her Elluine, but Ellie, a pet name, a mortal name. He'd never called her by her full name.

Until now.

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**Stay tuned for chapter 3: Flight to Bag End**

**and chapter 4: Complications**

**Disclaimer- **I came up with the storyline, the Liemuina, etc. I did not come up with the Hobbits, the Elvish language, or anything else copyrighted by someone other than me.

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**New sources are:**

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w w w. uib. no/People/hnohf/wordlists. htm  
The song "One Tin Soldier" (though I don't remember how)

The Universal Mary Sue Litmus Test

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References to other literature:

The dress Elluine is wearing is a blue dress made in the book _Daughter of the Forest, _by Juliet Marillier_._

Elluine's main weakness- needing to be near water often, or she suffers dehydration- is inspired by the character of Neri from the old Disney television series, _Ocean Girl. _Neri, unlike Elluine, must get thoroughly wet very often, or she begins to feel sick. Elluine only needs to either consume water or become wet every so often, because she is easily dehydrated. It can also make her feel sick.

The name of the royal guard, Queen's Swans and King's Corbies, is inspired by Laurell K. Hamilton's royal faery guard, the Queen's Ravens and the Prince's Cranes.

The lake the Glittering City is built on, Aelinonen Sisiliel, is, to the best of my knowledge, literally "the Lake of Shining Waters." That is the name that Anne Shirley gives Barry's Pond in _Anne of Green Gables._

The Glittering City, and it's location on a lake, is loosely inspired by the Silver City in the novel, _the Neverending Story._

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Names and Translations:

Aelinonen Sisiliel - The Lake of Shining Waters  
Erynmir Laurealas - Forest-jewel Golden-leaf  
Lunecua - blue dove  
Morontiriel- black begetting (biblically speaking, to beget is to spawn/conceive something/one)  
Yavannamirerel - daughter of the tree with red fruit; rowan trees bear red fruit

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In the words of JunoMagic:

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Please feel free to leave a comment!

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Anything at all:

If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	4. Author's Note

Okay, so I kinda cheated on this fic. I didn't do it on purpose- it was a logistics/geography thing. I didn't realize how far away Hobbiton was from Buckland and the forest. Then I saw a map. It's more than 25 leagues away. There is like, no way that Anar and Elluine could make it in one night and five extra hours. There's just no way.

Now, my plot doctor, Precious_BAMD_2, also finally got a chance to devour chapters 0-5, so they're up for rewrites. I'll try to have it done- with chapters 7 & 8- by the second Saturday of January. Okies?

Toodles.


	5. 03 Flight to Bag End

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**At the bottom of this chapter are:**

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Disclaimer  
Source listings  
References to other literature  
Translations of Elvish  
Names and their meanings  
Author's Note

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**Chapter Three**

**Flight to Bag End**

**.**

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Frodo Baggins, at almost the age of three and thirty, was a star-struck dreamer. He dreamed often about far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, battles and quests and adventures. He dreamed of gallivanting off on adventures and coming home to a warm fire, a comfortable bed, and a beautiful wife that loved him. He already had the first two. It was the third that he lacked.

But thoughts of a wife were far from his mind as he ambled along through the small groves of trees along the side of the main road. His mind was on the light dappling the ground as it filtered through the treetops, on the fact that he would be an adult in only a few months, and that his Uncle had sent out that one, early, and incredibly important invitation that day. Something in his heart gave both a joyous and a dark portent to the fact that such a beautiful, lavish invitation had been sent to the woman who had saved his life all those years ago. In some way, although he didn't quite understand exactly how, he had begun a series of strange, as yet unknowable events that would one day, though not for a long while, result in something great, and terrible… and yet… something wonderful, as well.

He'd never forgotten her, the woman who had saved his life those twenty-one years ago, not even a single detail. He still remembered the way her eyes had glittered like water blue crystals, and how her dress, which he had known was supposed to have been blue but was so very old that it was now a pale, soft blue-gray, had been soaked through from the river, and how the dress had been severely tailored to fit her. He hadn't known at the time what the fitting of that dress had meant, but now he knew that that old dress had been the property of one of the Big Folk and had been tailored by someone who didn't quite know what they were about.

He remembered the way her hair, like the whitest gold spun into silken threads, had clung wetly to her shoulders and her neck as she hauled him out of the river. He remembered the shirt she'd given him to wear - it had fallen well past his feet, a soft, brown homespun shirt made for one of the Big People. She had fished so strangely, standing waist deep in the shallows of the river and waiting, holding ever so still. Then, suddenly, like lightning, she'd snaked into the water and grabbed a wriggling, silver-finned fish. She'd caught so many of them, a whole string, just for the two of them. He recalled the ease with which she had started a fire that night, and spiked the fish on sticks after gutting them and stuffing them with wild herbs. They had been the best fish he'd ever tasted. He could never forget that meal. She'd been awake that night as he'd fallen asleep, and she'd been awake the next morning when he'd been wakened by the rising sun. She'd escorted him to Brandy Hall. It had been a quiet journey, the silence broken only by random bits of poetry and song recited by the woman at varying intervals. It had been surreal and strange, but the memory still made him smile.

And he remembered that last moment, when he'd clutched desperately at the sleeve of her dress and begged for her to stay, and she'd bid him goodbye before wrenching out of his grasp and disappearing into the shadows of the woods like evaporating mist.

He'd known she was one of the Village girls, but he hadn't cared. He'd heard his Uncle's stories about Elves and Dwarves countless times, and knew that people who were different weren't necessarily malevolent in any way. She'd rescued him from drowning, after all. What witch or demon would do something like that?

_No, _he thought to himself, not for the first time._ No, she is good. She saved me; she must __be good._

"I wander as I wander, out under the sky, watching the snow white clouds pass by..." Frodo sang softly, wondering when he would receive the reply to the invitation. He'd asked his Uncle to invite the entire Village- he didn't want her to get into any trouble on his account, so he'd asked Bilbo not to single her out too much. But he thought the Village Mistress would be pleased to know that one of her charges had saved a young Hobbit boy's life not so very long ago.

A shadow passed over the sun as that thought crossed his mind. He glanced up at the sky, surprised. There hadn't been a cloud in the sky, last he'd checked. And why did he have such a strange feeling? As if something dark came from the East, of all places...

Shivering in the sudden cold, he quickened his pace. He wanted to be home at Bag End, and quickly, before whatever chill thing was sending shivers down his spine came crashing down on him like a wave. He felt a sudden sense of impending dread, and for the life of him, he didn't know why.

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"What were you thinking?!"

Mistress Nimrohwen's face was bleached of all color. She towered over Elluine, eyes blazing with something akin to revulsion. The young woman shivered, staring up at the Village Mistress in something near shock. Her pale face bore livid, scarlet marks upon both cheeks, and a bruise was purpling around her left eye. She stood there, staring fearfully at the woman who had helped raise her, surrounded by the lush foliage of the gardens of the Moon House. She leaned against the fence for support, wondering if her knees would hold her.

"But… but he would have _drowned_, Mistress-"

"Do you think I care if a mongrel creature like that drowned? What do you think they do with mongrels? We drown them! Do you not remember the Dark Queen who tried to drown her heir? Why did she do it?"

"Because the Princess Hraveyar was mortal-"

"Exactly!"

"But she became Queen _anyway_!" Elluine cried. Sweat dripped down her temples and the back of her neck, between the muscles of her back. The salt of it stung the welts from her prior punishment. The plan cotton of her dress clung to her body.

"Turodaer Hraveyar was a Dark Court _mongrel_! Just like the Princess Nairaloth. Just like Princess Heryndur! Just like you! You're mongrels! You _drown_ mongrels! That's what _should_ have happened to that Hobbit brat! _That's what should have happened to you!_" The Mistress screamed, and Elluine fell back against the white, wooden fence around the garden.

"M-Mistress-"

Advancing on the stunned Liemuina, the Mistress snarled, "You should have been killed at birth. No, I'm wrong- someone should have rid the world of your evil before you were whelped by that _bitch_. Someone should have run a sword through Lunecua's belly while you were in the womb." The venom in her voice burned the girl like acid. She'd never, ever heard anyone speak so of her mother in all her life. _It was against the law to speak so. Everyone_ knew that. And the Mistress had called Nairaloth, the Dark King's bastard daughter, and Heryndur, the Black Queen's niece, _mongrels_! Because Naira was half-Mormarta, half-Calmarta, and because Heryndur was half-Human… but they were royalty! The monarchy was above reproach, by law!

"You... you speak t-treason. My mother is one of the _Crebainaran_-"

"Being the King's bodyguard doesn't give your slut of a mother the right to spread her legs for any man that walks by! Especially not her own-"

"I will write to the Princess Mornie if you continue with your slander," Elluine snapped, swallowing her fear. She knew what treason the Mistress spoke. The royal guards were above reproach in Liemuina society, no matter what they had done. To call one a whore, and to say she and her offspring should have been butchered, well... well, what was next on the list? That the King should die? Or the Night Princess? Or the Heir to the Throne of Light? Or even the disgraced Golden Prince and Nairaloth, the Princess of Darkness and Flames? Neither of whom anyone had seen in over fifty years because they was being hidden away by the Royal Family.

_Perhaps, _Elluine thought, _the Prince and Princess are being hidden away for just such a reason as this. _

Was there something more here than what she was seeing on the surface? Mornie was "the people's princess," the one that every Liemuina could beg audience with if needed. She was the Heir to the Dark Throne of the Glittering City, and somehow… somehow, Elluine would have to get word to her. But how? How could she? She was no one, nothing. Unless she wrote to her parents. Her mother was the captain of the King's guard. Perhaps they… unless… Anar?

"I'll tell Anarmacil what it is you say-"

"You'll do _nothing_ of the kind! And why should he believe you? You think him your friend, always coming to your aid? Foolish brat. Anarmacil is of a proud lineage, and he knows the law. He knows it was only through King Morquanar's weakness that you and your mother were allowed to live after she committed her obscenity. Your father was exiled, forced to live among the Humans for his crimes! Anarmacil will not help you now. He knows you have broken the laws of our people, endangered us all. Who knows how many people this Frodo Baggins has told of our existence? Of your existence? You gave him your name! How could you have done? You stupid, stupid girl! Anar knows what you are. We all know what kind of sick freakish abomination you are! Anar only keeps an eye on you to make sure you don't infect anything else with your foul blood!"

The switch lashed out, catching Elluine's calf muscle. She stumbled back from the enraged woman as the willow switch cracked across her face, drawing crimson blood from her cheek. Quick as a thought, she brought her arms up to shield her face as the switch came down again and again. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. She was through with crying. Her mother had borne worse pain than this. She could bear it as well. But she wouldn't sit silent and bear it. She began to yell.

"You speak evil against the King of Darkness! You speak evil of the King's guards! The King's Corbies shall hear of this! I'll tell them! I swear I will! I'll write to my mother! I'll write to my brothers! I'll tell Anar! I'll tell everyone!"

"Silence!" Nimrohwen shrieked as the switch came down again.

The Liemuina maiden knew that if she were to run away now, she would eventually be tracked down, and the beating would only be worse. And where else could she go to? No Hobbit would take her, she was a Village girl. She could not escape far enough away to reach the Wizards, one of the few Races that did know of the Liemuina and were not affected by the magic laid upon her people, or anyone else who could be convinced to take her in. There was nowhere else to go. She simply had to endure, until she was old enough and strong enough to return home, to her mother and brothers. But she would not endure quietly. She _would_ be heard. Surely someone in the Village would listen. The Mistress was slandering the King of the Dark Court! There were more than a few Mormarta in the Village, surely they would speak out against this, even if they didn't stop her beating.

"I'll tell Anar about this, and he'll tell the Night Princess, and then you'll-"

"And who would believe the Black Begetting, hmmm? All I have to say is that you've gone mad, twisted by your parents' atrocities and your own lack of magic, and that, like a rabid beast, you must be mercifully put down, for your own good."

She was so stunned that for a moment, her mouth hung open and her arms lowered from in front of her face. The blood rushed out of her head. Could she _do_ that? Could Mistress Nimrohwen really do such a thing? And would she? Elluine had always known that Nimrohwen hated her, both for the pain she'd inadvertently caused Erynmir and because of her mother's position at court - one that the Village Mistress had long coveted - but the Nenmarta maiden had never had any inkling that the woman hated her so deeply. And as for what she said… it was Nimrohwen's word against Ellie's. Would Anar and Master Golodh believe Elluine, or would they really listen to the Mistress and believe the Nenmarta girl mad? And wasn't madness a common enough ailment in the Nenmarta anyway? Anarmacil would be twice as likely to think her insane.…

_Not Anar! _Her entire mind cried out against this. _Anar would believe me!_

And she _would_ speak to Anar about the old witch, she thought to herself as the switch cut through the ancient blue dress again and again to slice through her skin, drawing blood. She knew better than to move out of the way: if she tried, Nimrohwen would catch her eventually, and that was only if she decided to let her get away in the first place. The Mistress could simply use her power to hold the girl in check, and make her so nauseous that she couldn't move to get away. Nimrohwen was, after all, a Vilmarta, and air was essential to Elluine for breathing and consciousness. But she would speak. She would scream if she had to!

"I-"

"You will not speak!"

"I-"

"Silence, bitch's whelp!"

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"You're a traitor and vicious old harridan! You're nothing but a withered, twisted-"

The switch caught Elluine's wrist, right on the knob of bone that made her wrists so pointy, and her entire left hand went numb. She cried out, clutching the nerveless appendage as the willow rod came hurtling towards her face. She had just enough time to see it coming before it lashed her mouth. Her bottom lip split open and she cut the inside of her lips on her teeth. She screamed, barely managing to keep enough control to maintain her appearance. She couldn't let the Mistress see! Her hold on what power she had was tremulous enough at the best of times. Under this kind of stress, she could barely keep her glamour intact. And if she didn't… then the Mistress would know that she was hiding something, would realize that Elluine had the power to hide it in the first place and had been hiding that power for more than a century. Not only that, but Nimrohwen would know what it was Ellie was hiding and would understand exactly what her secret meant. And then… well, she and her parents would be all right. They'd allow her back at court. Her brothers would no longer be considered ill-bred, and neither would she. Her mother would no longer be called a whore, her father would be called back from his exile. But word would spread to Thiliel Orthrond, the Shining City, where her grandparents lived, and they would be executed for their crimes.

_"Silence-"_

"I'll tell everyone and then-"

**_"Be silent!"_**

It didn't matter, she _would_ say something to Anar, or so help her. No one spoke about her mother that way, no matter what she may have done. And now her face was lashed not once, but twice... her face, which her mother said looked so much like her father's, but feminine and sweet and slender...

And the dress... the dress, her mother's dress, it would be ruined. She had repaired it when Frodo had ripped the sleeve, but this… this was too much damage to mend. She didn't have the skill and the dress was far too old. Her mother had received that dress from her great-great-grandmother, a mortal woman named Niamh, who had received it from her great-great-grandmother of the same name, who had received it from an aunt, who had received it from her mother, who had received it from the mother of her son-in-law, and it had been passed down by all these women, a proud line of healers and warriors, to the warrior called the Blue Dove, Elluine's mother, and then to Elluine herself. Only through magic had it been preserved for so very long and now... and now... now it was ruined, by blood and the cut of the switch.

Something akin to fury, but darker and richer, washed through her body. She felt as if a great wave were coming from the very tips of her toes and upwards, rolling through her body and gaining strength, and she wondered absently if this was what her brothers had meant about reaching the limits of the control on your power, and if she focused hard enough she knew she could lash out with this, somehow, and hurt the Mistress, just enough to scare her and make her stop. She would do that, it would be easy, just let the wave roll over her and flow out of her, and focus all of her will on Mistress Nimrohwen.…

And then something hard hit the side of her head, and she lost the wave as it receded back into her blood and bones. She cried out as her hand flew up to the spot where the rock had struck and her fingers came away red and wet. Blinking back tears of pain, she looked about her and saw a stone a little bigger than her fist, a stone that had a splash of crimson on it. She looked up from where her gaze had been fixed on the ground and saw the Mistress. Behind her she saw one of the Liemuina maidens, and she was hefting another rock. The spiky haired, tomboyish young woman, who was called Vilyanna, grinned malevolently. The single gold hoop she wore in her ear glinted reddish in the sunset light.

"Vil-" Elluine began, and a rock hit her square in the chin. A jagged edge cut her. This one had been thrown by a boy standing a few feet behind Vilyanna- the smiling child, Carlas- and she'd been too distracted by the other girl to notice him. There were a gaggle of boys and a few rare girls standing behind Vilyanna and the Mistress. All of them held stones.

Now here was a familiar game. The Village youths and maidens had thrown rocks before, but never when she was so badly damaged she might not be able to run away, and never during a punishment, where she _could_ not. The boys threw rocks because they thought it amusing. They were guilty only of thoughtless cruelty, like children who drowned sacks of kittens or threw eggs at other children, thinking it amusing. But the girls… there was true malice in the three girls' eyes- Vilyanna, Erynmir, and the Mormarta called Maldamor. They approached the cringing Elluine with rocks clenched in their fists.

"One," Vilyanna said.

The switch came down on Elluine's hands as she scrabbled for her own stone to throw. She heard a crack and felt a nauseating pain begin in two of the fingers on her right hand. She could taste blood pouring into her mouth, the copper taste of it harsh on her tongue, and spat out a gob of crimson onto the bright, green grass. She kept searching almost blindly for a stone as blood dripped into her eyes, though it was rather pointless; she was one against a group of ten. Still, she was tired of being hurt by everyone and everything, and that rain of rocks would shatter all the tiny bones in the one beautiful part of herself she had always kept hidden...

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Where was Anar?

"Two."

Were they going to stone her? For attracting the attention of the Hobbits? At court, the deliberate attraction of the outsider Races was a death sentence, unless you were pardoned of the crime. But she hadn't done it deliberately. The ancient magic of the Valar should have made him forget all about her. Only the Royal Family could rescind that magic from one of her kind, so the magic should still have been in effect. They weren't going to do more than punish her, she was certain...

"Three."

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Anarmacil splashed icy spring water on his face and drew in a breath, cursing life silently as he slumped down against one of the large, white rocks ringing the spring - one of many small ones that supplied the Village with drinking water. The chill bite of the water didn't help him to clear his head or focus his thoughts. All it did was irritate him.

He ran his hands through his short, golden hair, tugged ineffectually at the silver hoop in his ear, hating his hair and hating the earring.

His hair had once been long, almost as long as an Elf's, but when he had been exiled, his father had shorn it close to his head, barely long enough to lie flat. Anar had looked as if he wore a cap of golden fur. It had taken him months to grow his hair back to a fourth of its length, and then the letter had come from his father ordering the Mistress to shear it again. In less than a month, he would be due another haircut. Short hair among his kind was a mark of dishonor. The very thought of Nimrohwen's cold, stone scissors snipping away at what hair he had made him clench his fists.

_And then, _he thought acidly, tugging again at the hoop nervously, irritated, _there's this blasted thing._

The plain silver band meant several things- one, that he had no elemental affiliation, which was not true- a second mark against him, this one denoting, among other things, that he had been disowned or been disavowed his inheritance. Second, it meant that he had no court position, also untrue. But his parents had taken the diamond and pale electrum hoop that had been made for him at his birth and melted it down, as well as the ear rings that sported rubies and garnets, jet and onyx, diamond, topaz, crystal, and amber. He felt… weak and powerless without his jewelry, as foolish as that sounded. But for more than three hundred years, he had been able to walk through life, and all anyone needed to look at was the metal band in his ear, at the precious metal and gems, and they bowed to him, scraped and served, and knew him for who he truly was.

But not here. Still, it didn't much matter on the outside. The Mistress let him go his own way, and did not interfere with him. The younger boys looked up to him because of the quality of his weapons, as well as the skill with which he used them. Of course they did - he was the oldest person here, besides Tauriel and the adults. He had had much longer to learn the skills the other boys envied. But it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same, and it wasn't enough. Because for all the admiration and skill, and even his position as it was known to the Mistress and Master, the one thing he needed to do now was beyond him. He couldn't help Elluine.

What had Elluine been thinking? She'd saved that Hobbit's life - all right, he could understand that. Hadn't he broken several laws when trying to rescue Naira? But of course, that failed rescue attempt had resulted in death, torture, and exile for all those involved. Not exactly the outcome he was looking for in this case.

Why had she done this? Why had she told no one? If she had left the child and returned to the Village, if she'd come to him if no one else, he could've taken care of it. He could've ensured that the child didn't remember. Why hadn't she said anything to him? More importantly, why had the child remembered her? No Liemuina could be stripped of the great magic of their people, the magic of forgetting, just like that. It was integral part of them. Only the royal family could strip a Liemuina of that gift. How could the enchantment fail so suddenly? And why did it fail? Elluine's own magic being… well, non-existent, she was in grave danger without the protection of the great magic. And no Liemuina had any reason to suspect that the magic that had protected their species since the time of Morgoth had suddenly failed them.

Which, Anarmacil thought suddenly, sitting bolt upright, was probably the reason Elluine had saved the Hobbit child. No Nenmarta, tied as they were by their element to motherhood and emotion, could stand by and watch a young child die. His own mother had been forced to intercede on his behalf with his father, even though she too had fiercely disapproved of what he had done, and even though she had loathed him utterly for the death of his sister. It was simply the nature of those who were water-fated. It was as integral to them as the great magic of forgetting. If this was so, then surely Elluine could be forgiven her crimes. It had been, for all intents and purposes, an accident. She had not meant to break the laws, could not help but do so because of her nature. And since the magic laid on their Race so long ago should have still be strong, still been in effect, the fact that she had acted within her nature should have been all right, should have been no problem at all. But the magic hadn't worked, hadn't affected the child's memory, and so Elluine had been remembered all these years, through no fault of her own. And since it was not her fault, he, Anarmacil, could go to her and help her.

Leaping to his feet, he took off at a run towards the Village. The Spring was less than ten yards away from the edge of the clearing in which the three houses stood, and the path was well-worn and easy. But the youth was forced to stop upon the path, fists clenching tighter, as he stared at the other boy- the only one even close to his age- standing in his way.

"Where are you off to, Anarmacil Sunblade?" The boy demanded. It was Nasseo, Erynmir's brother. The youth felt himself bristling at Nasseo's insolent words. It wasn't his blasted business where the other lad was going.

"Move, Nasseo."

"There's nothing you can do for the wretched girl now, Anar," the boy went on, seemingly oblivious to the flush rising in the golden-haired youth's face. "She broke the law. That's the way things work. She has to pay the penalty."

"Get out of my way," Anar snarled, and tried to dodge past the dark haired, emerald eyed boy. Instead, Nasseo shoved Anarmacil back roughly.

"Eryn says to keep you here until the girl's sentence has been carried out. Wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities, would we? After all, you're so fond of her, it would be hard on you to have to watch her die, wouldn't it?"

Anar snarled a curse under his breath and lunged for the other boy, tackling him to the ground.

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The rocks rained down, bruising and pounding, cracking exposed bones until she hastily tucked her hands underneath her body. But when she did that, the stones hit her unprotected head, so she covered it with her hands, doing her best to ignore the pain. She felt sharp stabs of agony above her back, and felt tears pouring down her face as the stones crushed the tiny, hollow, fragile bones of that magically hidden part of herself that gave voice to the legacy of her blood.

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"Now, yendenin_, what are the elements of the world?"_

"Cen._ Earth," Elluine whispers in her mind, remembering something from before she was taken to the Village over a century ago. "_Vil._ Air. _Nar. _Fire. _Nen. _Water. _Fea. _Spirit."_

"Nen,_" she replies to her absent mother. _"Ve Ada, nen non. Ve Nimvilion,Vilrohir, ah Arvil, vil non. Ve Sinda. Elye, Naneth." _Water. She is water, like her father. She is air, like her brothers, and her sister. Like her mother. _

_"What is water and air?"_

_"It is weather," Elluine whispers. "That's what _Ada_ was- water and air. He was _Raumoturo,_ the Storm-Lord; that's what they called him before the rescue of Celebrian. He could command storms. He spent his whole life learning the arts of weather magic, things the Istari can do with a thought and a muttered incantation. Father was the Storm Lord. He rescued an Elven princess, and swore an oath of friendship with her twin sons." She whispers the tale to herself, sinking herself into the memory of her father's bravery._

The rocks pelted down on her, drawing blood, leaving crimson and blue and violet behind. There was a swelling knot on the back of her head. Her fingers were twin throbbing masses of pain. All she could hear was the Mistress screaming and the blood rushing through her head.

__

"What is water, my little one?" She can hear her mother's voice in her head, though there's no one there. "Tell me what water is." Her mother has taught her this trick, of remembering something until you can feel nothing else but the memory. Her mother, who was tortured while pregnant because of who the father was, taught her the secret that saved the life of that unborn child.

"Water is the blue blood of the world. It is the essence of life. It flows in the veins of those who are born to the water. It is my power, and my Father's. It is what I sink into when there is nothing else. It is the sweet strength beneath the earth."

The rocks were raining down on her like hail. Cutting at her, it alternated with the fall of the willow switch, bringing a spray of blood with each impact and a sting she didn't feel.

She was deep in the trick of her mother when someone roared, like a lion's roar, **"_What are you doing!?"_**

And she was back in the real world because that voice was the voice of safety and the only real affection she got from anyone.

She glanced up to see Anarmacil running towards her, disheveled and bleeding, sweaty and furious and covered in mud. He was cradling his left arm. Standing behind him, swaying somewhat drunkenly, was one of the Village lads, sporting a black eye, a busted lip, and an arm hanging at an angle that told her the limb was broken. That boy... she knew him. Erynmir's brother, Nasseo. He had tried to stop Anar from coming to help her.

But Anarmacil had come anyway.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Anarmacil's eyes burned with a fiery light as he drew a long knife that shone silver in the dying sun. His simple white shirt was torn and smeared with black mud. He had somehow lost the tunic. His breeches were ripped out at the knees, and the buff colored material was stained green in places from the grass. Anar's lip was bleeding, as was his ear where his silver earring had been ripped out. Good riddance to it. Blood trickled down his cheek where Nasseo had hit him in the face with a hastily grabbed rock. Pain radiated outward from the injury. He couldn't draw a proper breath without a rushing sound filling his ears and pain stabbing through his side. Anar's legs shook and gray spots danced across his vision as he tried to move his left arm.

_Nasseo must have broken it_, he realized. He might have bruised a rib as well. Well, it didn't matter just then. He couldn't afford to submit to his injuries just yet, no matter how much they hurt. He could see a black spot throbbing in the corner of his eye in time with his pulse - not a good sign.

"Anarmacil-" Mistress Nimrohwen stared at the glinting blade as the youth stepped between everyone else and the bleeding Elluine. No one seemed to notice that he limped slightly as he walked, favoring his right leg, or that he kept his left arm tight to his chest. All they cared about was the blade and boy.

"You will not address me as if we are on familiar terms, woman," the boy snarled viciously. The knife gleamed in the dusky sunlight. Without glancing over his shoulder, he demanded, "Elluine, can you stand?" He heard a scrabbling sort of sound that told him she'd gotten to her feet. He felt a slight change in the air that told him Arthur also stood behind him, probably holding the girl up. He could smell the stench of blood spilled in hatred. It sickened him. The youth struggled to keep his breathing even.

"Anarmacil-"

"You will address me properly, harridan, or not at all. I prefer the latter. Elluine is going away. I am pardoning her of what crimes she has committed. She is going…." He had to stop to catch his breath. "She's going to-"

"To Hobbiton," the girl murmured. He did his best to keep his surprise out of his voice as he repeated, "She's going to Hobbiton."

_Why, _he wondered vaguely_, is she going to Hobbiton? Well, I'll figure that out later. In the mean time..._

"Anarmacil-" Mistress Nimrohwen stared at the glinting blade as the youth stepped between everyone else and the bleeding Elluine. No one seemed to notice that he limped slightly as he walked, favoring his right leg, or that he kept his left arm tight to his chest. All they cared about was the blade and boy.

"You will not address me as if we are on familiar terms, woman," the boy snarled viciously. The knife gleamed in the dusky sunlight. Without glancing over his shoulder, he demanded, "Elluine, can you stand?" He heard a scrabbling sort of sound that told him she'd gotten to her feet. He felt a slight change in the air that told him Arthur also stood behind him, probably holding the girl up. He could smell the stench of blood spilled in hatred. It sickened him. The youth struggled to keep his breathing even.

"Tauriel Yavannamirerel and Breeyid of Rohan." Both girls pushed forward out of the crowd. One of the girls, Lossenim, had gone to get them when she'd seen what the Mistress and the others had been doing to Elluine. Lossenim melted back into the crowd as Breeyid and Tauriel came to stand before Anarmacil. Both girls stood within easy range of his knife, but didn't seem to notice. They gave him their full attention as he went on, "I want both of you to send a message to my sisters- Linde and Naira- at the Glittering City. They must be told what has transpired here. My sisters will make sure the punishment justice demands will be exacted. Do you understand?"

The two girls who had earlier that day been discussing rumors in the back garden of the Moon House bowed their heads in acknowledgement. Anar knew he could trust the earth maiden and the _Tavari_ to do as he had asked. They knew he had sisters, but they had no idea just who those sisters were. But he knew that once Linde heard of these events, things would begin to go the way he wanted- though that did not change the fact that he would not allow Ellie to remain here any longer. He knew, as well, how he would contact his twin sister when the night came and he and Elluine were away, off into the woods. As for Naira… well, once Linde had her tasks finished, she would tell the Narmarta maiden that Anar had been in trouble, and injured. She would worry. He ought to make sure she did not worry needlessly. He owed her that much.

"We're taking my horse-"

"Anarmacil, no! He's our only stallion-"

"Then, Mistress, I expect you'll make do without him while I'm gone. You should have thought of that before you offended me so very deeply." He tried to ignore the rage simmering just beneath the surface of his calm. He dared not look at Elluine at this moment, or he would break the code of the King's Corbies- of which he was, technically, the Captain, though in name only- and slay the woman known as Nimrohwen for what damage had been inflicted this day. He ought to slay her, and the Master, and all the pathetic wretches who had done such vicious things to his own little water sprite, so very much like a water child he had known long ago. But he wouldn't. he didn't have the time for vengeance. Ellie came first.

"You will take the wretched creature yourself, Anar- sir?" The Mistress cast her eyes away hurriedly, forced to look away from the young man's face, white with rage. She trembled at the violent fury in the young man's eyes, though so far it hadn't kept the idiot woman from speaking as he'd forbidden her to. He didn't care whether he frightened her or not. He didn't care about anything at all except getting his injured friend out of there. Hobbiton was at least a week's journey - they needed to go, and quickly.

"I will," he replied coldly. In a much louder voice, he cried, "You all will go into your houses and you will not come out until dawn. Breeyid and Tauriel," he added, much more softly. "I will meet you at the edge of the Village, at the practice circle. And now," his voice rang out, commanding their attention. "I will be requiring the services of the girl called Cirince, daughter of the mortal woman called Alianne Fletcherson. She will accompany me to the willow tree at the edge of the Village where the Silver Spring lies."

A sunset-haired Liemuina girl who looked no older than nine years old, a girl with delicately pointed ears and gargantuan, feathered wings like copper and gold, shoved her way forward out of the crowd to stand behind Breeyid and Tauriel. At Anar's look, she shrugged and hooked her thumbs onto the leather belt strapped around her waist.

"What?" The girl snapped. Her voice was like dry leaves blowing against rocks. She had the golden cat eyes of one of the _ravisoron,_ and the temperament as well. She snarled almost viciously when another of the Village young ones accidentally jostled her, baring very sharp, white teeth. The boy made a small, frightened noise and backed away.

"You are the daughter of Alianne, the Wind Lord's healer, are you not?"

"Aye. What business is it of yours?"

"Watch your mouth. Did she teach you anything besides animal medicine?" Anar demanded. He could feel Arthur's tension, his longing to be away from this place. The longer they stayed, the more likely it was that someone, perhaps even Anar himself, would come to harm. The half-Hobbit, half-Liemuina guard simply wanted to get the two young ones out of danger as soon as possible.

The girl Anarmacil spoke to, Cirince, nodded.

"Good," the boy replied. "You will see to the Lady Elluine, to mend her hurts." The youth didn't trust that some other healer's purpose, such as the giving of the "mercy stroke" to a mad creature, might not occur to one of the Liemuina. Cirince's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Anar murmured, "As a healer, you cannot deny her."

"She is ill bred and has bad blood. I have the right to deny her if I choose. By our laws, I even have the right to kill her, to put her down like an animal."

"You cull animals that are defective," Anar snarled.

"She has no magic," Cirince pointed out. "I would call that defective."

"Only according to some," he snapped at her, his tone forbidding. Suddenly his voice sweetened as he added, "And if you do kill her, I'll leave you for the sport of the Orcs across the way. I'll rescind the old magic from you, and they will see you, and think you fair, and take their sport with you until you beg for them to slit your throat. I have that power, as you know, Cirince Fletcherson."

If the girl was intimidated, she didn't show it. She merely smirked and nodded in mocking acquiescence, as if dealing with a spoiled child.

"You are your mother's son, Anar, and your sister's brother," she said, laughing. The boy flinched. How had she known who he was? She was only fifteen. She had only come to the Village less than a decade ago. She couldn't know him! And yet… the look in her eyes said that she knew exactly who he was. And to say that he was his mother's son…. His mother was well known for her ruthlessness when dealing with her enemies. Was that what the half-_ravisoron_ meant? Cirince continued, "I will go to the girl and see to her wounds, not because I fear your threats, but because I knew the warrior called Arvil Moraelin. He protected me once, long ago, at a great loss to himself. For his sister, the only sister he has left, I will help her."

And Cirince strutted away towards the Silver Spring, not bothering to wait for Anar to follow after her. He didn't care, he simply wanted all of this to be over with. His entire body ached from the fight with Nasseo. His arm throbbed, his ear throbbed, and his chest burned every time he drew breath. He couldn't put his full weight on his right foot. Now exhaustion warred with fury as he thought about what he was doing, what he was about to do, and why. Everything was spiraling out of control, but he couldn't allow himself to panic. By law, Elluine and in fact _any_ Liemuina were forbidden from associating with the other Races. Ellie had already been severely punished, far more severely than Anar would've expected, for what association she'd had with the Hobbits already. Why did she choose now to go into their town to seek sanctuary? And what was he doing, helping her? He was protected from what penalties there would be for any others of his Race perhaps- and that wasn't so sure anymore, not after his father had tried to disown him- but this was still against the laws of his people and he was helping the Nenmarta to break those laws! Why? What was so important about Hobbiton that Ellie wanted to go there, and why was he such a fool as to aid her? It was all so frustrating! His throat working almost convulsively to keep back the scratchy, burning scream of rage that was desperate to make its way out of his mouth, he jerked a half-nod at Arthur. The humming tension from behind him dissipated as the half-Hobbit escorted Elluine to the Silver Spring after the girl, Cirince.

"I'll be back," Anar snapped to the remaining Liemuina, and strode through the door to the Sun House to get what he would need for this journey, still clenching his teeth to lock in that scream of anger and hate.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

He almost went back to kill Mistress Nimrohwen. Almost. It was only because he needed to get away from the Village immediately that he did not return and slit the woman's throat. Elluine had told him everything the Mistress had said, and death was the punishment the laws of their people dictated. But he couldn't afford to dole out punishment now. He needed to get the injured young woman to Hobbiton. It wasn't going to be easy, for either of them.

Nearly all of Elluine's fingers were broken in at least one place. She was covered in bruises and stripes from the switch. She was having serious trouble walking, favoring her right foot. Her face would probably bear scars from the switch forever, and her lip had required Cirince to apply careful stitches. And for some reason, a reason neither Anar, nor the two girls he'd commanded to contact his sisters, nor Cirince the healer's daughter knew, Elluine's eyes would not focus, she was experiencing seconds-long black outs, and she had a headache that bordered on hellish agony. She'd already vomited from the pain once. And she refused to let Cirince see to the bleeding welts on her back.

Anar had a sneaking suspicion as to why, but he dared not say anything while in ear shot of anyone in the Village. Irreparable damage could result from such carelessness. He could think of no reason why Ellie would hide anything to do with her body from another young woman. The Silver Spring was the one in which the girls bathed, so there was privacy. There was no reason for her to refuse aid… unless she was hiding something Cirince could not be allowed to see. The only thing Anar could think of that she could be hiding was the _taithravan_, the mark of the wing. It was a shadowing of the skin, a darkening or lightening of the color of the flesh in the shape of wings- though whether they were actually wing-shaped could be debatable. To Anar, who's younger brother Talagant had one, they looked just like someone has splashed the skin with pale brown paint in no particular pattern. But that wasn't the point. The point was what the mark itself meant. And Anar had to admit that if she did have the mark, hiding it was a good idea.

But the boy kept his thoughts to himself for now. With Arthur gone, he had no one besides Ellie he could truly trust. Arthur had been left in the Village to stop Erynmir or Nasseo if they tried to get into the forest before dawn. With the power and influence Erynmir and her brother had over the strange, so alive trees in this forest, Anar didn't want to be caught here after dark with Eryn after him. Even Cirince wouldn't be able to put what would be left of them back together again.

Before he and Ellie had left, Cirince had patched Elluine up as best she could while Tauriel and Brighid passed their messages along in ways that could not be ignored by those they sought to contact, messages sent through rhythm and whispers, a trick of the Cenmarta that they had learned from the Elves before the laying down of the great magic. Now the bruised and pale Elluine rode pillion behind Anar on the boy's horse, Ambarone, wincing with every step the stallion took through the creaking, dark wood.

"How bad is it?" The young man asked her gently. "You're hurting."

Her pain beat at him, worse even than his own. He felt pathetic and helpless, unable to increase their speed or shorten the distance between them and their goal. He could barely focus on the pommel of his saddle as he clenched it with his right hand. His left arm was bound tight to his chest with a makeshift sling, courtesy of- of all people- Breeyid. The Cenmarta had insisted she knew nothing of medicine and healing, but she knew enough from all the times she had broken bones, she said, to know that a broken arm should be tied tight. She had also given Elluine a strange, green stone as a parting gift- for luck, she had said.

"Ellie?" He asked again when she didn't answer him.

"It will be all right. I'll live," she said, though she certainly didn't sound like it. Her voice was tense and tired. Anarmacil could sympathize. His eyes burned. Weariness beat at him. They had been riding for hours, and for miles. It had been just after midday when they'd set out from the Village. It was now only a few short hours till dawn. Luckily, they were riding Ambarone instead of walking. The large stallion could keep up this steady, plodding pace for days.

Elluine broke into his thoughts. "We need to hurry to get to Hobbiton."

"We are," Anar reassured her, his voice incredibly soft. "We are hurrying. We'll get there. We've covered almost forty miles already. We should be almost at the Brandywine River. And I have the invitation with me, so there's at least one place we won't be turned away from. At least, I hope that's the case. But why there? Why are we going to Hobbiton? You know that's against the law."

Elluine took a shuddering, pain-racked breath, pressing her cheek against her friend's soft, scarlet cloak. She shivered in the chill of the night air as it knifed through her thin, black coat, feeing the earliest possible bite of autumn's baby teeth and wishing that she were already in the bustling Hobbit town, wishing she were already on the doorstep of Bag End, the only place she could think of to go now. She knew in her heart she could never return to the Village, and she'd be turned away from the court, after what had happened. But the Hobbit who had caused it all, Frodo, surely meant her no harm and would help her. Clearly the memories he had of her were fond ones. He would help, she was certain. He had to help. Without him, the Village would be her only recourse.

She wondered suddenly, almost woodenly, if the Village people had meant to kill her this time. She wondered, though she couldn't seem to muster the strength to care about the answer, what would have happened if her friend hadn't shown up to save her. Pondering this in a vague way, she watched the trees pass by in the dark, watched the pale light of the full moon slip between leaves and boughs to touch the forest floor. She hoped it was enough light for the stallion to see by.

The golden dun horse neighed softly in the dark, as if to say, _Yes, I can see just fine_.

Anar's horse was a strange beast, even by Liemuina standards. He was golden in color, the most beautiful, shining gold Elluine had ever seen on any creature other than a dog or a _ravisoron_. But he had a black blaze down his face, which she'd never seen in her life, and black socks that looked like tenebrous flames licking up the animal's legs. His huge, liquid eyes gleamed like onyx, but sometimes, when the moon was dark or full, and Anarmacil let him run wild in the Old Forest, those same tranquil, sloe black eyes took on an eerie, greenish cast, almost hypnotic, and his breath was scalding hot and stank of smoke, and his flesh burned any who touched him except Anar, who had raised him from a foal.

Elluine wondered about the horse in the same way she currently wondered about everything, only half-caring and only half-paying attention to her thoughts as pain spiked from the swollen lump at the back of her head. She entertained thoughts of the Wild Hunt, the royal bounty hunters, and their strange horses called _morrah_ and any possible connections to the dun stallion she rode now, but Anar's voice cut into her dazed musings. Her skull throbbed when he spoke, and she bit back a whimper.

"Ellie?" He called her name ever so softly, but it still hurt. For a second, everything blurred before her eyes. She could have sworn that the red, woolen cloak she rested her cheek upon was instead a field of blood soaked meadow grass, but only for an instant before her proper sight returned. She sighed, hoping she wouldn't be sick again.

"What?" She asked just as softly. Speaking at all made the bones of her skull ache dully. She wanted to sleep, she was so tired….

"Well? Why Hobbiton? You don't know any Hobbits who would take us in, you can't possibly. None of them ever would. They'd be more likely to run us off with a hatchet or something. Our only token of safe passage is this invitation. So why there?"

"I want to find the Hobbit called Frodo Baggins. He'll help me," she replied, feeling her gorge rise again as the ground squirmed in front of her face alarmingly. Ambarone, the _morroh_ stallion snorted as if concerned.

"But he got you into this," Anarmacil protested. The lad's voice seemed to be coming from miles away.

"He... will... help..."

Anar felt the grip of the girl's arms around his waist loosen, go slack, fall away, and he heard a loud thump as something landed at his horse's heels. Ambarone gave a startled snort and took a step forward before becoming still again.

"Ellie!"

Anar immediately leapt down, kneeling in the damp, cold undergrowth beside her, and heard the faintest rustling of the bracken. He reached for his long knife- he hadn't brought his sword- and found someone else's blade at his throat. He stared up at the holder of the blade, and said, "Why do you threaten me? What do you wish?"

The wielder of the blade answered, "Your life, servant of the Enemy."

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

**Stay tuned for chapter 4: Complications**

**And chapter 5: Rangers' Camp**

**_Disclaimer-_**

I came up with the storyline, the Liemuina, etc. I did not come up with the Hobbits, the Elvish language, or anything else copyrighted by someone other than me.

Elluine does not have any great magical super powers. Just so you don't think she's secretly gonna develop the ability to defend herself magically. No way.

**oo8oo8oo8oo**

_**My sources are:**_

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(Title) (Category) (Donation to the story)

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Daughter of the Forest - Juliet Marillier - book - wardrobe

Disney's Beauty and the Beast - movie - a great line

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - CS Lewis - a great concept

The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Rings - Tolkien - book - duh

Mistral's Kiss - Laurell K. Hamilton - book - some character origins and Racial history

n e v r a s t . n e t - website - Elvish dictionary and grammar basics

Oathblood - Mercedes Lackey - book - wardrobe

Oathbound - Mercedes Lackey - book - wardrobe

Oathbreakers - Mercedes Lackey - book - wardrobe

Song of the Lionness Quartet - Tampora Pierce - book - Alanna the Lionness

Trickster's Choice - Tamora Pierce - book - Alianne and Nawat Crow

t u c k b o r o u g h . n e t - every freaking random thing in here

uib. no/People/hnohf/wordlists. htm - certain Elvish words that weren't on Nevrast

wikipedia. org - website - fairy research

**oo8oo8oo8oo**

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**References to other literature:**

The line at the beginning _"he dreamed often about far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, battles and quests and adventures"_ is inspired by Disney's Beauty and the Beast. The line in that movie is _"far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise!"_

The sentiment that freshly caught, freshly cooked fish are the best there is comes from CS Lewis and _the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe._

The Princess Turodaer Hraveyar is the Middle-Earth version of _Meredith Gentry, _by Laurell K Hamilton. In that series, when Meredith was 6 years old, her aunt- the Queen of the Unseelie Court- tried to drown her because she was too "mortal." The name Meredith means "great lord." "Turodaer" is Elvish for "great lord." Hraveyar means "flesh and blood." Meredith's title as of book 5 is Meredith, Princess of Flesh and Blood.

The title of Elluine's father, "Storm Lord," is also the title of the character Mistral in Laurell K. Hamilton's _Meredith Gentry_ series.

Cirince Fletcherson's character is inspired by the characters of Alanna of Trebond/Olau/Pirate's Swoop, Alianne Crow of Pirate's Swoop, and Nawat Crow, all creations of Tamora Pierce. Nawat's job in the book _Trickster's Choice _is as a fletcher- someone who puts the feathers in arrows. The son of a fletcher, in the old days, would either be named for his profession or after his father. Hence we have names such as Jameson, Harrison, Peterson, as well as Potter, Carpenter, Smith, etc. Cirince's mother is (in my mind ONLY, not in the story) the great-great-great-great-great granddaughter of the granddaughter of Nawat and Alliane Crow, on her mother's side.

Cirince is also a test of my skill- can I actually write a character who is half-griffin and keep her from becoming a Mary-Sue. I am doing my best.

The leather robe that Cirince is wearing can be found in Mercedes Lackey's _Vows and Honor_ series, worn by the mage Kethryveris.

**oo8oo8oo8oo**

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**Translations of Elvish:**

Ada- father  
Calmarta - fated of the light (Elvish word that in this story references Seelie, as well as bonds to the element of light)  
Cenmarta - fated of the earth  
Crebainaran - "crows of the king," literally "king-crows." A corby is another word for crow.  
Fea - spirit  
Mormarta - fated of the dark (Elvish word that in this story signifies Unseelie, as well as elementally dark Liemuina)  
Morrah - literally, black horses; here used to denote a phooka, a fairy horse  
Morroh - singular of morrah  
Narmarta - fated of fire  
Nenmarta - fated of water  
Yendenin - my daughter

**oo8oo8oo8oo**

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**Names and their meanings:**

Ambarone - sunrise  
Arvil- royal wind  
Cirince- red wren (bird)  
Heryndur - lady of the dark  
Lossenim - snow white  
Nairaloth - Heart-of-Flame Blossom  
Nimvilion- son of the white wind  
Sinda- gray

Turodaer Hraveyar - Great-lord flesh-blood (the name Meredith means "great lord" so this is the Elvish translation of the name Meredith)

Vilrohir- wind horse master  
Vilyanna- wind gift (I think; it might be "sky gift")

**oo8oo8oo8oo**

In the words of JunoMagic:

**Please feel free to leave a comment!**

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**Anything at all:**

If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	6. 04 Complications

**_At the bottom of this chapter:_**

_Chapter Previews  
Disclaimer  
Other Disclaimer  
Sources  
Translations  
Meaning of Names  
Footnotes  
Author's Note_

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**Chapter Four**

**Complications**

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Brighid preferred the spelling Breeyid because she was tired of everyone asking why her oh so human name was pronounced so funny, since everything in Quenya and Sindarin was pronounced pretty much the way it was written and her name was not. So Breeyid her parents spelled it, and Breeyid everyone thought it was except the now dead woman who had named her in the first place - her mortal, human, Rohirric mother.

Breeyid also preferred working with rocks and earth. She was one of the _Cenmarta_, the Fated of the Earth. Though she was flame haired, like her father's mother, who was one of the Flame Fated, Breeyid had the blood of the earth from her mother. It was part of being Rohirric, though only her _Liemuina _blood made it in anyway different from the magic of any farmer's daughter. She had the blood and heart and soul of the earth. She could feel the very pulse of it. She could hear the whisper of the stories of the stones. She could speak to the earth the way all _Cenmarta _could, they way the Rangers and the Elves could, pressing her ear to the ground and listening for what the earth itself had to say. She could track, read the signs in the forest as easily as a wolf. The earth hid nothing from her.

Well, that was how it was supposed to be, but she wasn't skilled enough to be that good at tracking right now. Her father hadn't taken her under training before she'd been sent to the Village. But the Mistress had assigned Tauriel to teach her what the _Tavari _could teach, though due to the discrepancy in their talents, it wasn't as much as she ought to have learned. Still, she could listen. Listening was something she knew how to do. That was what she was doing now. Her ear lay pressed to one of the great stones that ringed the circle of the Village clearing, feeling the chill of night creeping into it and out of it, numbing the delicate shell of her ear as she listened. There was a trick to it, listening for the ones she wished to find. The very bones of the earth ached and the stones upon the earth screamed if Orcs marched over them. They sang and shimmered if one of the _Liemuina_, if they were one of the Hidden who still harkened to their ancient blood and power, or if one of the _Eldar _walked upon them. They even whispered softly, just a little, of one of the Men of the old blood of Numenor wandered over them. All she needed to hear was the song of the stones for the Liemuina, and she could pound the message into the stone and let it be passed along, the warning that would need to be heeded.

"How _dare_ that insolent whelp speak so to the Mistress?"

The sound of Erynmir's voice startled a frightened squawk out of Breeyid. Her heart thundered in her chest as she jerked her head up and looked around frantically, searching, scanning the undergrowth of the forest. Why in Aule's name was Erynmir, the future Wood Witch of the Old Forest, in the Forest right _now_? Anarmacil had ordered everyone of the Village to stay within their homes until the sun rose above the tops of tallest tress. Well, except for Breeyid herself, the _Tavari_ called Tauriel, and Cirince Fletcherson, daughter of the Healer of the Wind Lord. Even Cirince's twin brother had been commanded to stay indoors, and he was Anar's closest companion, besides Elluine. So the _Cenmarta _Erynmir shouldn't have been in the Forest.

"And those two obnoxious geese were sending 'messages,' whatever they may say, to Mornie and Nairaloth. Who gave Anar the right to dictate what is to be sent to someone like _Nairaloth_, of all people? You know what they say about her! She's… she has unnatural appetites. She carries an abomination in her womb. The child in her body is dead, rotting inside her, yet she refuses to have it cut from her body. She is mad, vicious and mad. She's a danger to all around her. Her powers rage out of control. She plots against the royal family and tries to destroy our Race."

"You can't believe all that you hear," the second voice replied. Breeyid shivered. It couldn't be! Only Erynmir was foolish enough to disobey Anarmacil. But it was - it was Vilyanna! What was the Wind Fated maiden doing outside of the Moon House? "Besides, Anarmacil is more than you know. Don't underestimate him."

"I doubt he's anything to worry about. Tauriel is older than Anar, and I am stronger than she."

"Being stronger than the wood sprite doesn't make you stronger than the boy, Eryn."

Erynmir scoffed, obviously dismissing the _Vilmarta_ maiden's words of caution. Then the _Cenmarta_ maid asked, "Why do you call him boy?"

"Because I was there when he was born. I'm older than him by many years. I know his sins," Vilyanna hissed. "And I hate him."

Puzzling over this, terrified of the possibility of discovery, Breeyid glanced around her, her movements become more and more frantically contained as the voices of Erynmir and Vilyanna came closer and closer. Suddenly, someone clapped a hand over her mouth, and a scream swelled up in the _Cenmarta_ maiden's throat, threatening to explode out of her as she was pulled backward.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

"Your life, servant of the Enemy."

Anar stared up at the Man looking down on him, the human's blade tip touching the flesh of his throat. He could feel the iron within the steel already starting to set his flesh to burning. The _Liemuina _were allergic to iron, had been since their creation. It could sicken them, weaken them, until they faded away into death, though that hadn't happened since the time of the great magic . The iron in this weapon would merely irritate his skin... unless it cut him. Anar found his mouth suddenly desert dry, and swallowed, though barely, and his eyes widened in horror as he felt the steel tip cut delicately into the flesh beneath his chin, drawing a thin ribbon of blood that trickled down to stain his brown shirt. A second shirt ruined by blood in one night and already the wound burned as if salt were being poured into it.

"Why?" Anar whispered. "Why do you want my life?"

"You are a servant of the Enemy," the Man said. Anar thought he heard something close to hatred in that voice. "You are a creature out of the East, and-"

"Do you not think," a soft voice murmured from the ground. Anar glanced down and almost wept with relief when he saw Elluine staring up at the Man holding him at sword point. "Do you not think," she said again, "that if we were of the Enemy of which you speak, we would be older?"

Anar kept back a snort with much effort. Perhaps he looked like a youth, and it was true that by the standards of his people he was still a young man, not even near fully grown- which explained why he and Elluine were almost of a height, even though she was so short for a _Liemuina _maiden- but he was more than likely five times as old as this mortal at least. Elluine herself was almost as old this Man. But Elluine looked no more than nineteen, and Anarmacil himself looked no more than sixteen. They were not exactly the stuff from a Man's nightmares.

"They have a point, Halbarad," another voice said from the shadow of the trees. When the owner of that voice came out into the open, Anar had the strangest urge to bow his head, though Anarmacil Carlothel had vowed long ago never to bow to anyone ever again. The Man before him had a great bearing of nobility and strength. He dared not move, however, not with that scorching steel blade so close to his tender throat. The owner of the second voice, another Man and a Ranger like the first, continued, "The Enemy does not use children, no more than he uses the _Eldar_. Do you not see the maiden's ears? These two are of the Elves." The Man indicated the delicate points of Elluine's ears with a nod. "Let them both up."

Halbarad took the point of his sword away from the lad's throat and nodded.

"Get up," he said.

"She can't get up, she's injured," Anar snapped as sharp stones dug into his knees through the leather of his breeches. He rose and brushed off his breeches. Were these Men stupid? Did they not see the pain Elluine was in? Did they not see her bandages, her cuts, her bruises, her wounds? "I'm taking her somewhere to be treated."

"And how," the other Man asked, "did you come to be so injured, Lady?"

Elluine stared up at the mortal, suddenly seized with something close to panic. If they found out she had run away from a punishment, that she and Anar had left the Village basically without permission, would these Rangers try to force her to go back? What would they do to her? She knew very little of the Rangers, save that her Father had joined them long ago. But these Men did not know her, did not have any reason to help her. What if they were her enemies?

When Ellie didn't speak, when all she did was clutch at the boy's hand, Anar felt his protective instincts rise up too swiftly to control, and he snapped, "Mind your own business, long shanks."

"Watch your tongue, boy," Halbarad snapped.

Anarmacil felt heat flood his face. As much as he hated to admit it, his father had been right. He had no idea how Men treated the _Liemuina_ these days, since the other Races no longer remembered who and what the Hidden People were, or that they even existed. His Race, was nearly as proud as the Numenoreans and the Eldar, had been foisted into the realm of myths and legends. The boy couldn't expect the usual deferential treatment he received from everyone else. But that did not mean he would sit idly by as Men he had outlived several times over already insulted him, called him _boy. _He was a prince of his people, by Aule! Not a prince of importance compared to his fourteen elder brothers, certainly not as important as his twin sister, but a prince nonetheless. He would not be spoken to like some cretin by these Men of the North.

"Let us pass," Anar snarled. "I will not be delayed by ragged wild Men, barbaric princelings from a broken line."

Elluine clutched his hand. She was cautioning him to hold his tongue, and the rational part of himself said this was a good idea. But suddenly he was tired of everything. He was tired of his life, tired of being treated like a child, like a wretched thing. Maybe he was overreacting, but he was exhausted. He wanted to find someplace safe for Ellie and himself to go. And he certainly didn't feel like dealing with these wretched mortal Men. He refused to be halted by these Men.

"You insolent whelp!" Halabarad yelled, and reached to grab Anar. Aragorn grabbed the other Ranger's wrist and shook his head. The other Ranger glowered at the youth, who glowered right back. There was something about the greasy brown hair and piercing black eyes- especially the eyes, that strove to cut at Anarmacil like obsidian knives- that reminded Anar of his father, that reminded him of the thrashing he had received, the harsh words, the hateful glances, the betrayal. The boy's gold-flecked blue eyes pricked and burned, and he bit his tongue to keep back the flood of emotion.

Aragorn looked at Anar, and Anar took his attention from Halbarad for just long enough to see the look of puzzlement on the Man's face as Aragorn murmured, "You know nothing of the Rangers, my lad. Why do you despise us so?"

Anar struggled to banish the images of his favorite brothers, Tuacso and Ranlang, as well as his mentor and guardian, Voralph, the Captain of the Corbies in truth if not in name, riding out of the Village all those decades ago, riding away from him to go North, leaving him behind despite his pleas. That was why he hated the _Dunedain_. He understood his Father's view of the other Races, though his hate burned for different reasons. He hated the Elves, he hated the Rangers, and he hated the Hobbits, all for good reason. But that was none of this Man's business! How dare this Aragorn question him!

"Mind your own business, I said!"

"Boy, you tread on dangerous ground," Halbarad snapped. "Be mindful of your tone."

"Do not think to lecture me, Ranger!"

The Ranger in question moved to strike him, but Aragorn cried, "Hold! Have patience, Halbarad. He is only a boy. He is injured - see his wounds. He is concerned for his companion. Of course he is acting out in fear." At his words, Anarmacil glared at Aragorn with suspicion. Why was this Man helping him? What reason did he have to stand up for him? It made no sense to him. There was something about this Man that confused the Liemuina youth. He didn't know how to react to this. Why would this Man stand up for an obnoxious, insolent youth who refused to cooperate? It made absolutely no sense.

Confused, he tugged at the ring in his ear. He'd replaced the silver band that had been ripped out with an electrum band given to him by his friend Caroval, the brother of Cirince Fletcherson. It was technically against the law for him to wear the electrum band with its ruby jewel, having been stripped of his own earrings, but he didn't care. What he did care about was the fact that he had forgotten about the ragged ripped ear - he'd put the new ring in a different location, near the point, through the cartilage. He winced when his fingers touched clumsily stitched flesh.

Aragorn noticed this.

So did Halbarad, who looked over Anarmacil's injured form with suspicion before glancing down at Elluine, who still sat on the cool, dewy ground clutching Anar's hand. When his stern gaze fell upon her, she began trembling violently. Anar continued to glare.

"What happened to this girl?" Halbarad demanded.

Elluine shivered, and didn't speak. She didn't want to tell them. They would take her back to the Village, and then… then they would put her to death. She looked up at Anar, who glanced down at her before drawing his long knife. Immediately, the Ranger Halbarad drew his sword. The other Ranger, the one who had spoken in defense of the two travelers, laid a hand on Halbarad's shoulder and gave the boy what should have been a quelling look, but Anarmacil didn't care.

"It's not your business. Let us pass. We have done nothing wrong. She needs care, and we have miles to go before we sleep. Get out of our way," the boy snapped. He reached down and helped Elluine to her feet. She leaned against him, cold and aching from her bruises. She just wanted to sleep. Anarmacil could practically feel her tiredness pounding at him. He just wanted to get them both out of the Old Forest before something happened. It wasn't safe for them to be there, he knew. He hoped Erynmir did not follow them, at least until the dawn, but he didn't expect her to have listened to him. Her hatred of Elluine ran deep. It was dangerous for the two _Liemuina_ to remain in the woods for long.

As if to give credence to his fears, somewhere in the distance, the trees groaned as if under a great weight. The wood creaked and moaned as if in a gale. Anar shivered. Erynmir was in the forest. They had to keep moving. She couldn't find them! If she did, he couldn't be sure they would survive the encounter unscathed. Not in their current condition, at any rate.

"We will aid you both," Halbarad decreed, tightening his grip on his sword. Suspicion was stamped across his stern features. Why were these two in such a hurry? What was going on here? Why did the boy sport injuries that looked as if he had nearly lost a fight? Had he attacked the girl, and beaten her into submission? Why then did she clutch his hand as if it were her only lifeline? The Ranger wasn't sure what to think of this strange pair. All he knew was that the boy was disrespectful, prideful, and altogether far too irritating for his liking.

Anarmacil tightened his grip on Elluine and his knife. These Rangers were enemies! The boy didn't trust these Men at all! They were just getting in his way. How was he supposed to escape Erynmir's grasp with Elluine safely if they kept delaying him? Every moment they dawdled, danger approached. He had to get them both out!

"We do not need your help! Leave us alone!"

"Halbarad, you should not-" The other Man began, but the Man suddenly had the edge of his sword back at Anar's throat. The otherworldly aura of the steel seared his flesh, set his body to shuddering with pain and fear. Aragorn spoke again, murmuring, "Halbarad," but the other Ranger interrupted Aragorn, saying flatly, "I do not trust this youth. The lady, perhaps, is one of the Eldar, though she has the look of a woman and the height of an Elf child, something I have never seen before. But not the boy, no, he's no Elf. His ears have no points to them, they're as round as yours or mine, Aragorn. He's mortal, he's a Man. As for the Lady, well... I doubt she's one of the _Eldar_."

"My name," Elluine whispered in soft, fluent Elvish, her voice soft with pain, "is Elluine Moraelin, of the Village of the Old Forest of Buckland."

"The village?" Aragorn demanded.

"Aye, the Village."

"What Village?"

"The Village. It has no other name. And I am not mortal," Anar muttered, staring off at nothing. He struggled to keep his voice bland. How did his twin sister do it, handle people that infuriated her day after day? He needed to remain calm. He had already aroused their suspicions with his previous, panicky outbursts. He needed to calm down. How could he convince them he was simply a harmless youth if he kept on acting like a hysterical child? He struggled for calm as he continued to speak. "I am not of the Elves, and neither is my lady friend, here. I too am from the Village."

"The Village?" Halbarad echoed Aragorn's previous question. "What is this Village?"

"I seem to remember hearing of that place… yes. Yes, I have heard of it, but I've never met anyone from there. I believe you are very wary of strangers, are you not?" Aragorn asked them.

Anar rolled his eyes and nodded. He let the knife point lower enough to take the strain off of his left arm. He needed to strengthen his lesser hand. With his right arm incapable of holding up for him in a fight, he was at a serious disadvantage in a battle. If this interlude between the _Liemuina_ and the _Dunedain_ pairings became more than verbal, they would be in a lot of trouble. He couldn't deal with them on his own. Well… perhaps he could. But he didn't wish to bank on it.

"You know of our Village?" Elluine asked in a soft murmur.

"Aye. I remember some things about it. Gandalf speaks of it some times, most fondly," Aragorn said. "So you are not Elves."

"No," Anar snapped. "We said that already."

"Yet your companion bears the mark of Elven heritage." Aragorn made it more of a question than a statement. He indicated Ellie's delicately pointed ears, as well as the point to Anar's own right ear, ripped and bloody as it was.

That gesture brought forth the memory of Anar and his twin sitting in rough, wooden chairs while their father carefully carved his sister's left ear into a point. Blood was dribbling down her pale neck, stark scarlet against her ivory skin. She was sobbing, tears and snot running down her face. The memory made Anarmacil clench his fists. His nails sank into the palm of his right hand strapped tight to his chest, and his grip on the hilt of the knife tightened until his hand ached from the tension. He resisted the urge to slash at Aragorn.

"For the last time, she's not an Elf. She's not a half-Elf. She doesn't have any Elf blood at all, and neither do I! If I did, I'd drown myself in a lake. We're not Elves! She is, however, injured and in pain, and has just recently taken a tumble off of my horse. We have places to go, so if you would be ever so kind as to leave us alone and let us on our way, we'd be ever so grateful. Please," he said angrily, "let us pass, now, Rangers."

He could no longer keep the frustration and fear out of his voice. The wind had picked up, and it seemed as if it whispered potentially lethal secrets. He wanted to be gone immediately. He shivered as the wind whispered against his spine. There was something here, something he didn't quite recognize. It wasn't Erynmir, or wasn't just Erynmir. There was another in the woods bending their will against him and Ellie. It made his temper flare and his urge to run slam into him hard.

Elluine whimpered, and immediately his attention snapped to her. She took a shuddering breath, put a hand to her head. Pain radiated through the bones of her skull, slashing and pounding. Black spots danced across her vision. She clutched Anarmacil's injured shoulder, and for a moment he saw grey. A roaring filled his ears and he gasped.

"Anarmacil-"

"What's wrong?" He asked, and put his arm around her, careful not to cut her with the knife. "What is it?"

"My head," she whimpered. "Ow… my head is killing me…." She sucked in a breath and sank to her knees. Panic stabbed into Anar's heart as he debated whether to drop down to his knees beside her or keep up his guard in front of the two Men. He looked away from Ellie just in time to see Aragorn take a stride forward. Immediately Anar placed himself between the Ranger and his friend.

"Keep back," he snapped. Elluine sagged against his legs. He heard her moan and slump back to the dewy ground. He cursed, desperately trying to fight back tears, his gaze darting between the Rangers and Elluine. Biting back the most violent oath he could think of, he gave up and sank down beside her, carefully sliding his arm underneath her slight form to cradle her close to him. "Let us go!" He commanded, tightening his grip. He tried to beat back the rising panic. He didn't know what to do. Everything was falling apart and he had to get Elluine to safety. He had to protect his water sprite. He could not fail again! "Leave us alone! We just want to get to Hobbiton!"

For several long moments, both Men stared at the youth whose eyes blazed defiantly at them, then they glanced at each other before returning their gazes to Anarmacil's face. For a brief second, Anar thought about sheathing his knife, but these strangers each bore swords, and Elluine couldn't fight well enough to defeat them at the best of times, much less do so in her present condition. Swearing silently, the young man realized they were pretty much out of luck if the Men standing before them decided the two _Liemuina_ were better off without their bodily functions.

"Do you know what I think?" Halbarad said after a long silence. "I think that this girl is an Elf maiden, perhaps the child or grandchild of an Elf that bred with the Shire folk. And I think you have hurt her and that now you seek to kill her. I think you are a servant of the Enemy, despite your youth. And I think we should capture you and rescue the young lady."

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

That same night, far off to the West , Frodo Baggins shivered in his bed, wondering at the strange cold that had descended over Hobbiton. He could feel the ache of it in his bones. It made his teeth throb. His flesh was like ice, even burrowed as he was beneath his thick blankets.

He had lain awake at the beginning of the night, unable to sleep, his room stifling, even with the window open. He'd kicked off his sheets and his lovely down comforter, far too hot in the little hobbit-hole despite the frosty kiss of the cool night. His search for sleep had been a futile effort, for his heart had felt as if it were made of cold lead within his breast, so heavy as to be well nigh unbearable, and his mind had been weighed down by a strange sense of foreboding.

Finally, after counting sheep and stars, after reciting the longest, most boring poem he'd ever heard in his life and been forced to learn at school, he'd fallen into a fitful slumber plagued by dreams of strange things. And oh, what strange visions sleep brought him, for who had ever dreamed of winged men and Elves with eyes like darkness, or rings that held strange power and young warriors who wept as they clutched the broken bodies of a copper haired princess?

He dreamed-

_A golden ring, the same ring he had seen Bilbo fingering so many times-_

_A woman with great, glittering, violet eyes that burned with an otherworldly light and hair as black as a raven's wing sat tall and proud upon a high, white throne, while beside her a great lord, with sun-kissed skin and stern, grey eyes like the sea after a thunderous storm, hair like burnished bronze, and wings the color of burnished gold and copper and bronze, opened his mouth to speak-_

_And another ring, this one made of something more than silver with a white stone on a slender, white finger-_

_A lady with long, silver blonde hair, her eyes glittering like black cavernous flames out of the shadows hiding her face, laying crumpled and exhausted on the rocky ground, her hands covered with grime and soot and crusted, black blood, her clothes ripped and ragged and travel stained, reaching out to a bloody hand near her, though she could not seem to touch the scarlet stained fingers-_

_And another ring of gold with a ruby on a gnarled hand holding an Elven blade inscribed with ancient runes-_

_A group of Rangers, though some must have been apprentices. The three Men were hooded - he could not see their faces. But riding with them were two maidens and three lads - a girl with hair of copper flame and violet eyes, a maiden with hair like burgundy flames and eyes like the light filtering through the treetops, and a young man with golden blonde hair and a silver earring. They rode through a narrow gully, and crows circled overhead-_

_And yet another ring, this one set upon a slender finger, gold and sapphire, and the hand held a swan-feather quill pen-_

_A ring, simple, fashioned of some kind of silver material, but something other than metal, polished until smooth, carved with wavy lines that symbolized water, and set in the ring was a small, sky blue, freshwater pearl. He'd never seen that ring before, but somehow he knew he one day would. One day, not too soon, but soon enough..._

While he slept, the temperature in his room had plummeted. Now that he'd closed the window, the cold was slowly dissipating. Now he lay awake, his head resting upon his favorite goose feather pillow, pondering those dreams. Who were the lady upon the throne and the man beside her with the great wings? Were they a great lady and a majestic lord, or perhaps a King and his wife, or a prince and his lady? Yes, perhaps so. Perhaps one of those things.

The maiden broken on the rocks… who was she? And the Rangers… the boy had looked familiar. Why? Who were the Rangers' apprentices? Why did Frodo feel as if he knew that boy?

And what was the importance of the five rings? He'd felt terror and longing when his Uncle's ring had appeared in his dreams; awe and adoration when he'd glimpsed the silver-that-was-more-than-silver ring with its white stone that was too pure and ancient to be a diamond. Dry amusement and affection, as well as reverence, had thrummed through his body when the ruby ring had glittered in the darkness of his dreams. He'd felt nothing upon seeing the sapphire ring except a gentle melancholy.

It was the silvery ring with its pearl that struck him more deeply, plucking at the strings of his heart. It made him think of love and longing, laughter and tears, all the ancient tales of true and undying love he'd heard from Bilbo and Gandalf and some of the Elves Frodo had met. Somehow, that ring was incredibly familiar to him, though he knew not why.

These thoughts, the memory of the dreams, and a strange feeling of worry, chased him back into exhausted slumber, and this time he did not dream.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Breeyid tried to scream as a hand clamped around her mouth, and she was hauled into the shadow of a great, thorny willow tree with thick vines. She opened her mouth to sink her teeth deep into her assailant's hand, but the offending appendage yanked away. The _Cenmarta_ was grabbed, whirled around, and she came face to face with Tauriel. The unblinking hazel green eyes bore down on her, forcing her to stillness and quiet. Breeyid took a shuddering, terror-laced breath and whispered, "_You scared me to death_!"

"If you bite me," Tauriel said to the terrified girl, her face a mask of blazing annoyance, "I'll make sure you never walk out of this forest while you're still breathing. Understand, mud girl? Nobody bites me unless I give them permission."

Breeyid swallowed hard and nodded once. Then she asked timidly, "What are you… what are you doing here? I thought you had to go send a message to Nairaloth. And how did you get past Erynmir and Vilyanna?" She added, wonder creeping into her voice. How had the _Tavari_ managed to sneak her way past the future Wood Witch as well as the Vilmarta maiden and also somehow sneak up on Breeyid herself when every sense had been trained on her surroundings. How had Tauriel done that?

"I'm a _Tavari,"_ the wood sprite answered dryly, "and this is a forest. That's usually how it works. As for having messages to send to the Princess Nairaloth, I did," she added flatly, rubbing one ear with a fist. When her shirt sleeve snagged a twig caught in her hair, she yanked the offending debris out of her tresses and tossed it away before smoothing her hair down. A shower of leaf debris fell from her hair onto her shoulders. "The message was delivered and replied to. I'm to follow Anarmacil and Elluine and keep them safe from Erynmir."

"How did you manage to get the message to Nairaloth? She's supposed to be cut off from all communication. The King believes she'll corrupt us all and lead us to our destruction."

"This is because Morquanar is an idiot," Tauriel replied. Breeyid gaped a her. "Do not stare at me as if I have two heads. You're the second youngest of all of us in the Village. Only Cirince is younger than you. I know you haven't exactly been around for very long. But I am the oldest person in the Shire. I'm practically ancient compared to even the Mistress. I was alive when the Thain of the Shire wed the youngest daughter of the King of Light. I was there when the Wintersmith line was begun. And I have many of our monarchs to compare the current King of Darkness with. He's an idiot."

From beyond the cover of the willow's vines, they heard a snatch of conversation, distracting them from the wood spirit's critical views of the King; a strange voice that neither recognized, a man's voice, saying, "Nairaloth is most displeased. She'll speak to the King, you can be sure of that." Then the sharpness of Erynmir's voice hissing, "Nairaloth is an abomination! You know what they say! She's in love with..."

Tauriel jumped, startled, when Breeyid's lips brushed her ear as the _Cenmarta_ girl whispered, curious, "Who's Nairaloth in love with?" The _Tavari_ girl pushed Breeyid away.

"She's in love with Anarmacil. Why do you think he didn't just send the message himself? He's not allowed to even speak to her. It's a death sentence if he does. It's why he was banished in the first place. Surely you know the story of the Princess of Darkness and Flame?"

"**_What?!_ But Anar is-""**

"It doesn't matter," Tauriel replied softly, hitching up her skirts and tucking them into her belt of woven long grass. "That's love- what can you do? And those two are who they are, and there's nothing they can do about that, either. They did not even know who they each were when they met. Until the Fell Winter, they had never laid eyes on each other before. He did not know who her father was. She did not know who his father was. And neither of them can help their parentage. Just like Elluine can't do anything about who _her_ parents are." At the look of surprise on Breeyid's face, the tavari snapped, "I have lived too long to be concerned with things like breeding. Did you see me among that brutish lot throwing rocks? I never would, and I never have. Where were you, then?"

"Hiding in the basement," Breeyid murmured, staring hard at the humus upon the ground. Her fingers idly stirred the dead leaves. She could admit it to herself, though never aloud - she was a coward. And of course, the other Liemuina of the Village frightened her. She had no powerful magic, no skill. In the stepladder of life in the Village, she was just above Elluine because she at least had potential and the barest glimmerings of power. "So, what did the response from Nairaloth say?"

"I can assure you, mud girl, she is most unhappy. Incredibly so," Tauriel replied dryly. Then, pressing her back against the trunk of the beech, she sighed and scrubbed at a smear of dirt on her cheek. Her forest eyes were dark. If Breeyid hadn't known any better, she might have thought that the wood woman was worried. But why would she be concerned about Nairaloth?

"What's wrong?" Breeyid asked timidly.

"If Anarmacil is injured, we could be in trouble. If Anarmacil is killed, we will definitely be in trouble."

"Why?"

"Because Nairaloth cares for only two beings in the world - Morelinde and Anarmacil. And Morelinde cares for only two people - Anar and Nairaloth. If Anar dies, do you really want to be forced to answer to the Night Princess and the Princess of Darkness and Flame?"

"But Naira has no magic."

"She's insane. She doesn't need magic. Her madness lends her speed, agility. She could have a knife buried in your throat before your magic could do her real harm. And is it any wonder that she loves Anarmacil so much? Think of what she might do to any who might harm him?"

Breeyid went pale. She'd heard rumors of Nairaloth, of why she was imprisoned, but never anything solid. Only that she had committed some grave sin, something even a noble could not be forgiven for. The thought of going up against anyone frightened her, but the prospect of fighting Nairaloth obviously upset even the usually indifferent Tauriel. The thought made the _Cenmarta_ maiden shiver with fear.

Desperate to change the subject, Breeyid murmured, "What are you doing here, though? You never said."

"You sure ask a lot of questions," Tauriel replied. When Breeyid continued to look at her, she sighed gustily and answered, "Well, if you must know, I'm currently spying on that wood witch. She and the Mistress, and even Vilyanna, they speak far too freely. The King and Queen are bound to have them killed eventually."

"But... I..."

"What?" The _Tavari_ demanded. "The monarchs execute people a lot, it happens all the time. Well, they might just torture the three of them. I suppose it depends on what all is happening back at court. Erynmir is strong, stronger than I had thought when she first came here. And Vilyanna has strong connections at court. Her mother is a noble, her father one of the _Alquatarir_. Perhaps they will only be tortured." At Breeyid's horrified look, Tauriel added, "Morquanar is not just a moron. He's also quite mad. But that isn't the point. Anar and Elluine are still in the forest, and while they are, they're in danger. If Erynmir can coerce the trees into murder, I wouldn't be surprised. The Mistress would never stop her. I'm certainly not strong enough to. There are, in point of fact, very few of us who are old enough or strong enough to stand up to that girl."

"But the Liemuina don't have a lot of power, even as adults," Breeyid whispered. She laid herself down upon the forest floor, and her grubby dress helped her blend into the earth. "She can't be that strong... can she?"

"She doesn't have to be. She just has to be stronger than those who would stop her from doing what she wants. And she's going to cause us trouble, that I can feel. The forest whispers its unease to anyone with the brains to listen. This place, these woods… they were once part of a richer, darker, older forest. It was alive once, and the great sentinels of Yavanna walked its paths. This forest has darkness in it, and our little wood witch is good at manipulating the darkness in others. When they find out, the trees won't be happy, but that will take too long. We can't wait for that."

"Then… what should we do?"

"Why am I suddenly in charge?" Tauriel demanded.

"You two really shouldn't talk so loud," another girl's voice whispered, and Cirince crouched down beside them. Tauriel almost let out a shriek, but clapped a hand over her mouth at the last minute, stifling the sound. Breeyid gasped from her prone position on the ground and inhaled a mouthful of dirt and dead leaves. Cirince continued, smiling blithely, "You really shouldn't, you know. Someone might hear you."

"_What_," Tauriel snapped, grabbing the girl's arm with bruising force, "_are you doing here?!"_

The healer's daughter yanked out of her grasp and proceeded to dust leaf pieces and earth off of her soft, calf-skin over-robe. She didn't bother swiping at anything beyond its hem, which stopped at her knees. Tauriel saw that her breeches were calf-skin as well, and her boots were sturdy leather, up to her knees. She looked more like some wandering tracker than the fifteen-year-old daughter of a human and a _Ravisoron._ Her violet eyes and feral face made Breeyid shiver, but Tauriel merely stared at her steadily, a challenge clear in the _Tavari's_ hazel green eyes.

"I heard raised voices," Cirince replied calmly.

"Don't you ever wear real clothes?" Tauriel demanded, tugging at her green shirt and dark brown, homespun skirt. Breeyid wiped at a splotch of mud on the bodice of her green dress, smearing it worse. The half-Human girl scoffed and got to her feet, though she did so slowly, watching to make sure she wasn't seen.

"Why were you spying on us?" Breeyid demanded, then ducked her head, as if afraid of being reprimanded. Cirince shrugged and said, "Shouldn't we go to higher ground, so Erynmir doesn't find us?"

"Aren't you afraid of tearing those delicate wings of yours? You might lose a pinion feather." Tauriel sniped.

Cirince cast a sardonic look at the brunette wood woman before glancing at the brindled copper and gold wings at her back. The feathers, almost the same varying shades of her fiery hair, fluffed and ruffled, and she spread the great wings a little, feeling the sweat trickled down her back between her wing muscles. She wished almost absently that she had the space to stretch out to her full wingspan, but then squashed the desire ruthlessly. Her father had taught her long ago not to dwell on what she couldn't have. Instead, she pulled her wings in tight and smiled at Tauriel.

"Afraid of hurting my wings? Not really, no. I'm a creature of the air. I know how to handle myself off the ground. Worry about yourself, tree girl."

"Why are you even here?" Breeyid asked. "I thought you wanted to kill Elluine for being... well, you know. How she is. Because of her breeding."

The russet-haired girl shrugged. People always made assumptions, always latched onto one piece of the conversation and never stopped to consider the implications of the rest of her words. She sighed inwardly and said aloud, "My mother sent me a letter a few days ago with some advice. I decided to take it. So here I am with you two. I figured you could both use some serious help. Like babes in the woods, you are."

Both girls stared at their winged companion for a long moment before Breeyid, eyes wide in her face, exclaimed, "What does that even mean?!"

"Don't worry about it," Cirince replied. "The point is, I'm currently on your side. You know how we are, we cannot tell falsehoods. You know for a fact that I'm on your side. So the question is, are you going to accept me or not? To not accept would be a stupid idea. So will you?"

"Why should we?" Tauriel demanded, tugging at her sleeve. "You're not even a _Cenmarta _like us. We have no elemental connection. We've done you no favors, so you do not owe us anything. Besides, I've seen you hanging around Vilyanna and her crowd."

"I only associate with that lot because Vilyanna is teaching me how to make my own arrows. I molt - it's convenient. I'm coming to you because my mother told me something else." Cirince leaned forward, tucking a strand of copper-red hair behind one delicately pointed ear. "A shadow is growing from the East, and its great and fiery Eye is soon to be fixed on a place near here."

Tauriel went very still. Her eyes were dark in her face, without shine or light. There was a white line around her mouth, and pale spots on her cheeks. She looked as if she might faint dead away.

"How does your mother know that?" Breeyid whispered.

"The Wind Lord heard it from Mithrandir, the Wizard. We can't afford to be divided when this thing comes, whatever it is, but very few of us are intelligent enough to realize it. I am, and thanks be to Manwe that you two are. So I ask again, do you accept me?" Cirince sat back, leaning back on her palms pressed flat to the ground.

Breeyid held out her hand and said, "Yes."

"Wait just a moment. Who put you in charge?" Tauriel demanded. Breeyid sighed and answered, "No one. No one at all. But, might I remind you that before you, Erynmir, Cirince, Vilyanna, and that strange man came into the forest, I was here, trying to discover what Morelinde told me to look out for. When I find it, I'm supposed to send new information to Linde. If I do not, she's going to be furious when she finds out that I didn't. And Anarmacil will be angry that I didn't. So I need to, which means I need both of you to hush up."

Tauriel shrugged, masking her surprise at the sudden briskness of attitude in the usually timid _Cenmarta_ maiden, and then the forest sprite relaxed again the trunk of the willow tree. Cirince spat in her palm and then took Breeyid's outstretched hand and shook it. The flame-haired Cenmarta maiden did her best not to grimace at the slimy feeling of the saliva-slimed handshake.

"Well, then," Tauriel said, pushing a hand through her hair. She grimaced at the tangles. "Let's go see what Erynmir is cooking up now."

"Let me find what I'm looking for first, goodness!" Breeyid cried, and pressed her ear to a stone.

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**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

**Stay tuned for: **

_**Chapter 5: Rangers' Camp  
Chapter 6: A Stir in Hobbiton**_

**Disclaimer- **I came up with the storyline, the Liemuina, etc. I did not come up with the Hobbits, the Elvish language, or anything else copyrighted by someone other than me.

**Other Disclaimer-** When I post chapters longer than 3000 words, for some reason whole chunks of my paragraphs get shoved to the bottom and placed in other random places. I'm pretty sure I fixed everything, but if I missed something, please jut let me know and don't eat me. I don't taste very good anyway, not even with ketchup. =)

**Personal Author's Note:** I might have to postpone my "chapter 7-8" update, because the 2nd Saturday of January is in 4 days and I'm not done editing and rewriting chapters 5 & 6. I might have to reschedule for the 3rd Saturday in January. After that, updates will be slow in coming. I lose computer access on the 20th. Sorry, guys. I'll try to have at least 3-4 new new chapters up before that happens. So please bear with me during the delay. Okie-dokie?

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**My sources are:**

behind the name. com  
The History of Middle-earth, vol. XII, The Peoples of Middle-earth: Foreword, p. xii  
The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Rings (book)  
n e v r a s t . n e t  
_Sevenwaters Trilogy_ by Juliet Marillier  
_Trickster's Queen _by Tamora Pierce_  
tuckborough . n e t  
uib. no/People/hnohf/wordlists. htm__  
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**Translations**:

Cenmarta - Earth Fate; earth fey  
Eldar - the Elves  
Liemuina - the Hidden People  
Ravisoron - griffin (literally lion-eagle)  
Tavari - female wood spirit (male wood spirits are called _tavaro_)  
Vilmarta - Air Fate; wind fey

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

**Meaning of Names:**

Ambarone- sunrise  
Aragorn- Kingly Valor  
Brighid - exalted one (Celtic)  
Cirince - red wren  
Erynmir - jewel of the forests  
Halbarad - tall tower  
Manwe (1) - King of the Valar; lord of the air, the winds, and the sky  
Mithrandir - grey pilgrim  
Morquanar- Blackness of Flame; Flame of Darkness  
Mornie - darkness  
Nairaloth - blossom of the sun, fire flower  
Ranlang - moon blade  
Tauriel - a bastardized word meaning "Forest (feminine)"  
Tuacso - bone and sinew  
Vilyanna - wind gift  
Voralph - black swan

(1) - Since a _Ravisoron_ is a _Vilmarta_, and Cirince is half-_Ravisoron_, I figured it would be an appropriate Valar for her to invoke.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

_In the words of JunoMagic:_

__

**Anything at all:**

If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Please feel free to leave a comment!


	7. 05 Rangers' Camp

_**ALERT: Anarmacil's story has been posted. Chapter three is up. Look under Lornarion: Lithuin Tindu.**_

_**At the bottom of this chapter is:**_

_Disclaimer  
Custom Author's Note  
List of Sources  
Translation of words  
Footnotes #1-3  
Names of Weapons and their meanings  
Footnote #4  
Names of Places and their meanings  
References to other literature  
People's Names  
Standard Author's Note_

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**Luineyende**

**Chapter Five  
Rangers' Camp**

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Elluine blinked dazedly, and stared up at the sky. Everything seemed so incredibly fuzzy... and the voices around her were fading in and out. Her back was one giant throbbing slab of pain- she was lying belly up on the ground, and the delicate bones of the part of her she kept hidden were in little pieces. They practically blazed with agony. Anar was saying something; she could hear his irritated voice, strained with the effort of keeping his panic under control, and then she heard one of the Men, the Rangers that had waylaid them, saying something that made her head hurt, that made no sense to her...

The tall, dark haired Ranger said, "I think we should capture you, boy, and rescue the young lady."

Rescue her? What did she need rescuing from? She'd already been on the run from the Village and its tyrannical mistress, the mob of young women and youths whose faces were twisted with revulsion and loathing, what else was there that she could possibly need rescuing from? But thinking about it - trying to focus on anything beyond the throbbing agony of her back and the way the bones in her skull ground against each other, shooting her brain full of lightning bolts of pain - was beyond her capabilities at this point.

For a few seconds, pregnant with menace, Anarmacil could only stare blankly at the two men looming over him. He surely could not have heard those Rangers correctly. Did they say… rescue? They were surely jesting. But when the Men didn't crack a smile, he realized they were absolutely serious. It was then that he exploded vehemently.

"_Lle lakwenien?!"_ He demanded to know if they were joking. "I saved her life!"

The Ranger's sword point pressed deeper into Anar's neck, drawing another rush of trickling blood. The blood drained from his face. He could feel his chest beginning to constrict. The iron scorched his skin. His throat was beginning to itch and burn, and he struggled to keep his breathing even.

"Joking? Indeed?" Halbarad demanded. The blade pressed deeper. "I think not."

"I have done nothing wrong. We are simple travelers. How dare you waylay us this way? We have done you no ill, so why do you insist on-"

"I sincerely doubt the girl is with you willingly," the Ranger began.

Elluine sat up slowly, propping herself up on her hands, her arms spread for balance. The moist earth enveloped the tips of her fingers as her weight pushed her hands into the ground. She blew a lock of tangled hair out of her face, muttering, "Could you all please stop speaking about me as if... as if I were an object and not a person?" She tried to get to her feet at this point, but the world tilted alarmingly, and she sank back down to the ground, panting for breath. She struggled even to speak as the forest and the violet-blue, star studded sky blurred in and out of focus. She blinked rapidly, but her gaze didn't clear. Her head continued to pound violently.

Gasping for breath, she managed to mumble, "He saved me... please... let us go..."

Annoyed with her own weakness, Elluine hauled on Anar's shoulder, pulling herself up to her knees. She felt Anarmacil stiffen and he sank down a few inches, stifling a groan of what sounded like pain. She looked into his face, and saw sweat standing out on his forehead. He was terribly grey for a moment before she redistributed her weight to both shoulders. He blew out a pent-up breath and closed his eyes, relieved at the lessening of the pain, and reached up with a free hand to grasp one of hers. The bandages around her hands were wet with the moisture of the earth and the dewdrops from the ground plants, creepers, and lush grass. She saw Halbarad's eyes flick to the bandages wrapped around her damaged hands so that only the long, tapered fingertips poked out, and then to the dark bruising around her eye that was already beginning to swell badly.

The _Liemuina_ maiden ignored the way the stern looking Man was staring at her and drew a breath to speak.

"He's... a friend. Can we... go now?"

Both Men glanced at each other, then down at the two young ones they had found in the Old Forest. The maiden's eyes glimmered in the pale light of the moon as it filtered through the tree tops. Aragorn thought for a moment that she might have been close to weeping. She had obviously been ill used, but Aragorn saw Halbarad wondering if it was truly friendship, or fear, that made her rush to defend the youth. There was something quick and sly in the boy that made the other Ranger distrust him, but Aragorn sensed only pride, pride and a pain so deep that it was like a black shadow threatening to consume him.

"I sense only truth in their words, Halbarad," Aragorn said. "But," this he said to the youth. "Your companion there is surely in need of rest, and treatment, and after traveling all day?" He made it a question.

Anarmacil nodded reluctantly. He didn't want to trust this Man, but he seemed like he meant them no harm. Still, many of the men in Anar's life that he'd trusted had turned against him in the past. What was so different about this man? A sharp pain spiked through his head as he tried to think. His eyes felt gritty and raw. He needed to sleep, they both did, but they could not, not yet. Dawn must come first. They had to keep going until the sun rose above the tops of the tallest trees. Erynmir might have been Mistress Nimrohwen's pet, but everyone in the Village pulled their weight. The future Wood Witch of Buckland had her chores to do, come dawn. They would be safe then, when she was occupied with her tasks.

Aragorn continued, "Were you intending to ride all night?"

"Aye," the youth replied. "We need to be away from the Village and out of the Old Forest as soon as we can, or we're going to be caught."

"Ah-ha! So you are runaways!" Halbarad cried. "Perhaps we should then take you into custody and return you straight to your parents-"

"If you knew anything about the Village, Halbarad," Aragorn interjected. "Then you would know that the children there are all fostered by the Village Master and his wife. Their parents are probably somewhere else entirely, and no place that we could reach them. If they _are_ runaways, they're probably running back home-"

"I will never go back!" Anar cried suddenly, his voice full of cold rage. "I will not! Not back to the Village, and not back to my family. I have no use for those who hold me in contempt. Now, for the last time, get out of our way!"

"Anar, be calm," Ellie murmured, squeezing his hand. Her vision was plagued by dancing red and black spots. Her head pounded abominably. "It's all right."

"I will not let these Men force us to go back to the Village, Ellie. I refuse. We will go to Hobbiton and that's final! Get out of our way! I am so tired of people standing in my way. Move!"

"Boy!" Halbarad snarled. "We are not dogs that you may order us about-"

Elluine gave a gasping cry and fell against Anar. Her weight collided with his shoulder and arm, and his world went grey for a moment, pain radiating from his arm. He bit his lip, tasted blood. The _Nenmarta_ maiden slid down his body and fell to the ground on her side. Anar sank to his knees, white hot shards of pain stabbing into his arm. He took several deep breaths, trying to clear the haze from his vision. The Ranger stepped forward.

"Boy, you must-"

"Enough!" The lad cried, glaring hatefully at both Aragorn and Halbarad. He bit his lip, trying to think of what to do. Hating the fact that he had to do so, he transferred his knife to his other hand, grasping the hilt in an awkward grip as he scooped Elluine up with his good arm. Then he took the knife back into his good grip, careful not to cut his precious burden.

"Ellie. Ellie? Ellie, wake up!"

He squeezed her once, shifting her around to try and wake her. shook her very gently, and she made a small sound, though she didn't open her eyes. Aragorn dropped to the ground beside them on his knees and check the girl's pulse. It was shallow and fluttering. The Ranger's mouth tightened into a grim line as he tried to take Elluine out of the youth's arms. Anar's one-armed grip tightened and he tried to maneuver his knife into a defensive position. He cursed the fact that he had the use of only one arm. It made him vulnerable.

It made him furious.

"Boy-" Aragorn snapped, impatience tingeing his voice for the first time.

"Do not dare think you can lay your hands on her, Ranger of the North. She's badly hurt as it is. I will not surrender her to you."

"Indeed. What happened to her?" Aragorn demanded as he forcibly yanked the maiden from the youth's arms and got to his feet. He turned to the other Man and added, "Halbarad, sheathe your sword." With a muffled oath, the other Ranger did so, though he still kept his eyes on the boy. Aragorn continued, "These children are merely that - children - and they need our aid."

"We do not need your aid! Give her back, Aule curse you to Hell!"

"You should show more appreciation," the Ranger replied. To Halbarad, he said, "Now, my friend, go and find me some _athelas_. We shall need much of it to help this girl. I will take her and the boy to our camp. Boy," he added, this time to the youth. "You will follow me, and you will keep a civil tongue in your head, or you will regret it."

"I'm not a-"

Halbarad shoved the boy forward, cutting off his protests, but Aragorn didn't take the time to do anything but note the lad's attitude before he was off striding through the undergrowth, Halbarad going in the opposite direction in search of the healing herb. Aragorn looked down at the girl's pain-pinched, death white face as he walked briskly through the woods, and felt his brow wrinkling. Where had he seen this girl before? She looked so familiar... someone of the Rangers looked like this... but whom? He couldn't remember. Someone... an Elf, maybe... one of the Grey Company?

"Where are you taking us?" The youth demanded, then saw the way the Ranger was carrying his friend. Every time he brushed against her back, she unconsciously bit her lip and winced in pain. A tear would trickled from the corner of her eye. Sudden panic and the driving need to protect Elluine made Anarmacil sound almost childish when he demanded angrily, "Give her back to me!"

He had a theory, a wild theory that would prove wrong all the rumors and crimes leveled against Elluine and her family, but he needed to get both of them away from these Men so he could find out if he was right! They needed to get out of here and then he needed to get Ellie conscious. He didn't know what he would do if he couldn't wake her up, however.

Would she die?

No, no she couldn't die. He wouldn't let her. Not after what happened to Mirilhun and Nenimir. Not after his little sisters. He would not let history repeat itself.

"Are all the young men of the Village so foolhardy and stupid?" Aragorn snapped back over his shoulder. He could feel the lad casting sullen looks at his back, but did not care in the slightest. Something in him urged haste. The Ranger knew that he had to get the girl back to their camp to be treated as quickly as possible. She wasn't dying, not yet. But he sensed that there was something in the forest that posed a danger to the girl. He had to protect her from it.

They practically ran through the woods, ducking beneath branches, leaves brushing their cheeks. Anarmacil stared at Aragorn, following the Ranger quickly and quietly through the forest. He let all of his hatred shine in his eyes. He hated this Man, hated the way the Ranger spoke down to him, as if he were a mewling infant. Anar hated how easily Aragorn had ripped Ellie out of his arms. Hated that he was now at the mercy of this Man who assumed so much and yet knew so little about him. Mixed in with that black hate was concern. Where was Ambarone, his horse? The stallion was his loyal companion. Like Anar's twin sister Linde, Ambarone had always been by his side. When he'd been left in the Village, alone and forgotten, he had at least, by his mother's order, been allowed to keep his stallion. Now even that companion was gone, vanished in the wilderness of the Old Forest. It made his heart sink with the weight of a strange loneliness.

Worse even than the hate, the anger, and the feeling of being so alone, cut off from friends and loved ones, was the fear.

He would never admit this to anyone, not even on pain of death, but he was afraid. What if these Men tried to hurt him? He would be powerless to stop them. He had no idea what was wrong with his left arm, though he thought it might be broken. He certainly couldn't use it. With Elluine to take care of, he was practically defenseless. These Men could, if they so chose, kill him in an instant, and no one would know until they found his cold, lifeless body in the middle of the forest, probably half-devoured by wild beasts. And who said danger lay only with the Men?

All around him, he could feel the trees. They watched, they listened. They were all potential spies for Erynmir. The idea set his heart to pounding. He had no great magic, and even if he did, the magic he was fated to eventually wield was of flame. Erynmir was a Cenmarta who's power ran towards the blood of the forests. He could not fight her without possibly causing a forest fire. A fire did not have to be big to do great harm. Fire was his friend, as much as it was anyone's friend, and the enemy of the forests.

But he would never forgive himself if the verdant woods that his dear Nairaloth had toiled so hard and so desperately to preserve all those years ago were to be destroyed now, just because of him.

But the two Rangers, and Erynmir… they were three very deadly enemies. He would soon enter into the midst of more of the Men of the North, and then he and Elluine would be in a lot of trouble. No mortal creatures could be trusted, especially not when he was so helpless.

And Elluine… he feared for her as well. What if she didn't get better? He knew nothing of how to treat most of those injuries. And if his theory was correct, if she had the marks of one of mixed breeding, then he was most certainly out of his depth. He knew not how to heal such wounds as she might have received to such delicate limbs. He was terrified for the women of his heart. For Elluine, who was like a sister to him. And for Linde… and Naira. What was happening to them? Were they safe? Were they all right? Was Naira being treated well? Was his father abusing her? Or was she all right, merely lonely, trapped there in her tower of white stone?

For a moment, he had to bite his lip to stifle a small sound. Tears pricked his eyes, but he forced them back. He would not, could not weep. Not now, not ever again.

Aragorn sensed a monumental struggle taking place inside the boy who strode behind him, tense and silent and so very angry. He wondered at it, but decided to focus on the question of the girl instead of the wounds of the boy. The maiden needed his aid more than the boy at this moment. She was so light in his arms. Her bones felt like the tiny, hollow bones of a bird, fragile as glass. He heard her labored breathing, saw the tears gleaming on her cheeks. His heart ached with pity for her. What had happened to her, this poor, battered maiden?

Then the Ranger heard it - the guttural, hissing, jagged sounds of the Black Speech. Orcs... Orcs were sneaking into the Old Forest again.

"_Yrch_!" The boy hissed, and the sound of metal sliding against leather told Aragorn that the lad had drawn a blade. But did he know how to use it? He would almost be willing to bet against it. He had tried to wield his blade while still holding the girl to him - an unwise choice. And in the Ranger's experience, most country boys couldn't wield a sword or dagger to save their own lives, much less use it well enough to defend someone barely conscious. He would have to lend his sword to the defense of both the children, then.

"Can you fight?" The youth demanded, breaking into Aragorn's thoughts. "I can't defend both of you."

"I beg your pardon?"

The Ranger turned and saw the boy, his long knife and short sword both gleaming bare, cold naked metal in the moonlight, and the boy himself stood in a ready fighting stance. He wondered who had taught the boy swordsmanship, for what he saw was the best stance for the situation, the weapons, the enemy, and the boy's physical build. The keen edge of his blades gleamed strangely, as if made from something other than steel, but of no metal that he, nor, he would wager, any other Man had ever seen. It had a strange, cold light to the blade that even _mithril_ did not have, colder than the light of the stars in the depths of winter.

The sight of it made Aragorn's blood run ice cold.

"What is that?" Aragorn whispered as he set the maiden down, out of the way against a tree trunk, and drew his own long sword.

"Silver-edged _vilyekemen_, made by the white Beornings. Why?"

Anar reached for the pair of small throwing knives at his opposite hip. He just wanted to be sure they were there, just in case. If he were ever unarmed, they would be sure to strike at least two enemies dead before he fell to opposing weapons. These blades, which were themselves made of the strong, silvery metal called _mithril_, or true silver, were themselves called _Iul_ and _Tinu_. They had been a parting gift from his brother Tuacso, and the blades were etched with the symbol of the House of Carlothel - a flower on a rayed field. His long knife, a gift from his father when the two were not divided by the young man's hurt, guilt, and hatred, was called _Calthilivern_. And the short sword in his hand, its edge a burning slice of pain in the dark when unsheathed, was called _Silfatanyu_.

A twig snapped a ways off.

Anar shifted uneasily, feeling the hair on the nape of his neck stand up as if electrified. He glanced at Elluine, then at Aragorn, before turning his head this way and that to take in the surrounding forest. Not for the first time, he wished he had his twin sister's superior night vision. His eyes were fairly good - as good as any Dwarf or Man of Numenorean's. But they nothing compared to his sister's, who had trained herself to see in the dark almost as well as she did during the day with her one good eye. It had taken centuries, but now Anar wished he'd had the patience to do the same thing. It would've served him in good stead right at this moment.

Another snapping twig, this time closer. Something rustled in the trees. Anar thought he heard the sound of a bow being drawn taut. He tightened his grip on his knife and tried to keep calm. He hated being unable to see well. He made a soft sound of annoyance at his helplessness, wishing Linde was by his side at this moment. He'd never been in a real battle without her at his side before.

It didn't feel right.

"Linde, I need you now. Where are you?" He whispered, picturing the jewel-like eye, the ravaged face, the tight black braid and the gleaming longsword.

"Keep silent," the Man ordered him. Anar's eyes slashed in his direction. The look on the lad's face could've cut like a razor. Behind the fury, pain bubbled and festered. Aragorn continued, "They come."

"No they don't..." Elluine whispered. Both standing males glanced down at her in sharp surprise. "The trees... safe... protect us... we go now... Bag End..."

"Bag End?" The Ranger said sharply. "What business do you have with the dwellers at Bag End? Perhaps you _are_ an enemy."

"Bilbo and Frodo Baggins owe us a debt, and we need their help. That is all," Anar replied, sheathing his sword. Kneeling down to haul Elluine up to lean on his good shoulder, he added, "It matters little. As for Ellie, she cannot walk far, and we need to get away from here. Are you carrying her, or am I?" He shifted his grip on the hilt of his knife, looking down at Elluine's pale, pinched face.

Aragorn saw a strange look cross over the lad's face, a mixture of regret, tenderness, and humiliation. Then the boy looked over at Aragorn and said, "I do not think..." His face burned red as he admitted, "I do not think I have the stamina to run, carry her, and possibly fight any of those monsters, should they happen to find us and attack us."

A fiery blush shot up into the tips of his ears, and he found a new level of loathing for the Ranger. He tried to ignore the throbbing of his shoulder and arm as he met Aragorn's clear, gray eyes that saw far too much for the youth's liking.

"It is my charge to protect this forest and all the regions of the Shire. If there are Orcs here, they need to be dealt with now," the Man hissed softly. "I will leave you both here and return for you when the Orcs have been dispatched. I cannot let these monsters roam freely in these woods."

Anar sighed. Humans never listened, and they always underestimated those which they assumed were powerless. Elluine had clearly said that the trees would deal with the monsters in the woods. He, Anarmacil, trusted that it was so. Why, then, did no one else realize the power contained in this forest? These were Men of Numenor. How could they not see what lay hidden here in the depths of the Shire's woods? Especially when such beings as Erynmir and Tauriel lived within the palace of emerald boughs.

Part of him wondered why the trees, over which the vicious Erynmir held such sway, would come to their aid. Another part of him wondered if his own wood woman, the _Tavari _called Tauriel - one of his few allies and he was sure one of the few people in the Village who guessed his identity, along with Cirince and Carvilion, as well as Breeyid, who _knew_ - was in the forest, doing her best to counteract Erynmir's influence. Then he shrugged off the questions revolving in his brain and turned to Aragorn.

"Did you not hear what Ellie said?" Anar snapped. "The trees will deal with them. _Ellie_ is hurt and _needs_ help!"

"The _trees_?" Aragorn demanded incredulously. The Ranger was unsure as to whether or not he should believe his ears. "The _trees_ will kill those Orcs? Is _that_ what you're telling me? I think you're a _coward_, boy. That is what I think. I will deal with them alone-"

"I will go with you, _mortal_," Anar murmured, his face flushed, his anger obvious even to the most unperceptive observer. How dare that insolent Human wretch accuse him of cowardice? Him, Anarmacil Carlothel, the Golden Prince! He could ignore even the pain of his arm, cracked cheekbone, and his ripped ear as rage coursed through his body. After all he had done for this place, the Shire and the people in it, after the blood and the pain and the grief that had come from everything he had tried to do for the Halflings, and now this ragged Ranger out of the North dared to call him a coward! "I will go with you, long shanks. No need to be afraid of a few Orcs." He gently helped Ellie to sit down. To her he whispered, "Will the trees protect you as well as kill Orcs?"

"I need... no... Orcs dead... trees... don't go, Anar..."

"I'll return shortly, if you're right about those Orcs. Stay hidden."

And he came to stand beside the Ranger. Those keen grey eyes bored into his, but he held them with his summer-night gaze flecked with gold. For a moment, Aragorn felt the weight of summers and the fires of the earth scorching behind that boy's eyes. The Ranger had no idea what was running through the young man's mind, but there was deadly seriousness in his eyes and on his face. Behind his gaze, there was such grief. Aragorn had only seen such deep sorrow in the eyes of the _Eldar_ before.

Anarmacil wondered if Aragorn could see his true age in his eyes, could see who he was. He was not a coward. He simply could have cared less about the Hobbits. It was the Hobbits, Bilbo and Frodo, who had incurred the Mistress's wrath against Elluine and landed her in this awful state of half-unconsciousness. It was Hobbits that whispered horrible rumors and vicious untruths about Anar and his kind, the _Liemuina_, although the Shire-folk had never been exposed to those of the _Liemuina_ whom they ought to truly be afraid of. The pain of those rumors cut at him. He hated the way the Halflings spoke about the people who had done so much to help them. And it was in the service of Hobbits that he had met the Princess Nairaloth, the bane of his existence, the thorn in his side, the plague of his life, half of the reason for his exile.

He had no reason to care if the Hobbits were slaughtered in their sleep by Orcs. Death to them all. His task had been a thankless one, and he was tired of it. He did not care about them any longer.

"_I _care if they die, Anarmacil Sunblade," Elluine whispered. It was the first full, coherent, unbroken sentence she'd spoken since falling off his horse. "Please, my friend? Please?"

He glanced at her pale, sunken face briefly before turning his gaze back to the frowning Aragorn. The exchange between the youth and the maiden had taken perhaps twenty seconds. The Ranger said, "If you care not for the Little Folk, at least-"

The great, ancient trees of the Old Forest seemed to moan and crack and creak, as if bent and harried and pushed by a great, storming wind, though there was none. For a moment, the air was full of the protests of the forest, and then Orc corpses were flung to the ground in front of the three travelers. Thirteen inhumed Orc carcasses, all laid out cold and dead with rigid, pale green fletched arrows in their hearts and imbedded in their throats. The trees continued to creak and groan for a few minutes, shifting as though in a gale wind, though nothing stirred against Aragorn or the two young ones. For a long moment, there was silence, and then a rustling of leaves, as if the forest were speaking to them. Then nothing again after that.

"I _told_ you the trees would handle it," Anar snapped, sheathing his knife again. He knelt down again and began to help his injured friend to her feet when Aragorn demanded, "What just happened?"

"The trees handled it," the young man answered. "Just as I said they would. If you had trusted someone with obviously superior experience, you would not have been so concerned for our safety and the rats that live in their holes in the hills."

"_Trees_ don't shoot _Orcs_ full of _arrows_."

"They do where_ I_ come from," Anar replied, and hauled Elluine up, supporting the exhausted, injured maiden. "Now answer my question: are _you_ going to carry her, or shall I?"

**.**

Tauriel rubbed her aching wrist and sank back against a tree. She breathed a soft sigh of relief and release as her fury dissipated. Her blood, and the rage boiling in her veins, eased back into sweet coolness, like the amber blood of trees in spring. The _Tavari_ let out another breath, desperately trying to relax. She needed to remain calm. She was a dryad, bred like the forest. Trees were slow to anger, and slow to calm, but she couldn't afford to take her leisure. Angry warriors made foolish mistakes. The _Liemuina_ girl let out a last, calming breath, and let her body fall against the trunk of the tree.

She despised Orcs, _loathed_ Orcs! She hated them with a passion for what they had done to the forests of the world. She remembered long ago, how close she'd come to death at the hands of the Orcs when they'd made for the great redwood tree in the forest where she was born, tried to hack it down and murder it. Her tree, her beautiful tree…. She remembered why she survived - an Elf had shot the Orc down. But she would never forget how many of the _Tavaro_ people had fallen in that attack against her home forest.

The dryad sighed as tears pricked her eyes, but did not allow the tears to fall. Instead, Tauriel pushed back her hair from her face and then absently traced a rip in her dress that had caught on a bramble as she'd scaled the tree.

She scanned the forest floor for her allies. Breeyid immediately looked up from where she blended in to the humus upon the ground and waved her fingers. Tauriel nodded in acknowledgement.

Breeyid had been right- there _had_ been Orcs in the Old Forest. She'd heard their footsteps setting the Earth to screaming, and known they were near where a man of true Numenorean descent had roamed, as well as Anar and the injured _Liemuina _maiden he escorted. The _Cenmarta_ maiden and the _Tavari_ had darted through the woods, and Tauriel had found her vantage point to take her revenge.

Part of her was concerned about how much she enjoyed killing the Orcs. She wondered if her soul was beginning to become tainted, poisoned, like the sickness that could rot the heartwood in a tree. She didn't know, and, she thought to herself ruthlessly, she didn't have time to think about it or care.

Now her wrist ached from shooting her longbow. She didn't shoot it often, not the one of solid, strong rowan wood that her Mother had given to her before she'd been sent to the Village. It and the sky-earth tipped arrows with their pale green fletching were difficult on her arm. It took a lot of strength to control it, a lot of strength to aim and shoot. And she was still so sensitive to the rough twine of the bowstring that she'd managed to rip open a blister on her thumb. It stung irritatingly, but didn't bleed, so she ignored it.

Shooting the bow was difficult on her ear, as well, she amended, as a trickle of wetness flowed down from the middle of the curve of her ear and down her neck. She'd cut herself on the fletching. It happened sometimes with her Mother's arrows when she wasn't being careful. The speed and immense force could turn rigid silken feathers into a soft, stinging blade.

Belatedly, Tauriel wondered if Anar would remember to collect those arrows and return them to her when they met up again. The green fletching were special feathers her Mother had given her. They were _ravisoron_ feathers, from the lion-eagles that nested in the greater forests and made their eyries in the sequoia trees. It was hard to find the plants that dyed them green and made them so strong and stiff. She even had a hunch that her Mother did something to them, something to make them fly truer by just a bit, but she couldn't be sure. She'd never shot so well before at night, but that could have been because the Orcs had kept on tripping over tree roots that had inexplicably kept putting themselves in the monsters' paths.

The earth did not like creatures of Darkness such as Orcs, not at all. The woods would not bear their presence quietly or demurely.

_Stupid Yrch, _she thought.

Shrugging it off and blotting the bleeding on her ear with a shirt sleeve, she climbed down from the tree. She touched her bleeding ear, wetting her finger tips, and smeared the crimson on the bark of the oak tree she had climbed. Silently, she thought, _Thank you. I give the sap of my body to quicken yours until the time of the cold sleep comes._ It was an empty gift, really - there was nothing wrong with this oak, and if there had been, she could have done nothing to fix that. But it was a demand of courtesy, and the _Liemuina_ were supposed to always be courteous.

She held out her hand to Breeyid, who took it hesitantly. The _Cenmarta_ maiden could tell that the _Tavari_ was in a not-quite happy mood. But the hazel-eyed girl gave the earth maiden a kind smile and helped her up to her feet.

"Let's go home," Tauriel murmured.

"For how long?" Breeyid asked.

The wood sprite gave her a long, considering look. Her eyes were dark in the pale light of the moon, but Breeyid's eyes were bright and shining. Tauriel was surprised that such a naïve girl could ask such a wise question. For how long were they going to be home? How long would it truly be home? For a moment, the _Tavari_ felt a fierce, bitter longing for the Linderyn, the forest where she was born, where she grew up. She thought longingly of the _cargaladhon_ in her forest, and the Vorlhunaelin, where she had learned to swim. It made her chest ache.

What finally brought her attention back to the real world was a strange tickling sensation against her cheek. She touched her face, and her fingers came away wet.

She was crying.

Immediately, she sucked in a deep breath and sighed, wiping surreptitiously at her eyes. Why was she weeping? She hadn't wept in such a long time. It made no sense. Ignoring the strange twisting in her chest, she blinked back the tears and turned to Breeyid, forgetting for the moment how much she wanted to leave this awful, lonely forest and go home. Instead, she thought about the _Cenmarta_ maiden's question.

How long would they be in the Village?

"You and I…." She began, and paused. She thought for a moment, thinking about how she felt about the Village. She had never liked it, but some of the people in it, she had cared for. Anarmacil reminded her of herself, centuries ago - lonely, distant, wondering where they stood in the world, now that they were ripped from the one place they'd ever known. Breeyid, young and so naïve, with powers that didn't want to cooperate. Carlas, who loved to make things grow. The girl who had come once, sixty years ago and stayed until three decades ago, what was her name? Ah, yes, Linde, with her one good eye the color of the twilight nestled in bone-white scars, and her long, jet black hair. All the people Tauriel cared for.

What was she going to do about all this?

Breeyid tugged on her sleeve.

"Tauriel?"

"You and I have much to do. Our people owe their allegiance to the monarchy of our respective courts. But we are both part of the Glittering Throng, and our King is mad. His Consort stands without any true power. The Queen of the Shining Court is twisted and hateful, her Consort long dead. Who then do we give our loyalty to? We know of only one who is fit to rule - the Heir of Shadows. Princess Mornie is our Queen, whether she wears the crown or not. We owe her our allegiance.

"Therefore, we will go to the Village, to ready ourselves for the journey after Anarmacil and Elluine. Then we follow them, and protect them. We do as she bids, Breeyid, the Heir of Shadows. She is our Queen in truth. Never forget that."

"Excellent speech," a soft, feathery voice murmured.

Tauriel jumped in surprise and hastily shoved young Breeyid behind her as the _Tavari_ whirled around to face the source of this new voice. The hazel-eyed young woman had reacted before she had had time to actually form a proper thought. She found herself looking straight into the glittering, violet eyes of Cirince Fletcherson, who ruffled the feathers of her coppery wings casually. Her eyes burned with violet fire, sparking like lightning. There was something akin to anger in her gaze.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Tauriel demanded angrily. "Appearing behind us like smoke!"

"I liked your speech! Don't have a conniption. If you'd been paying better attention, perhaps I wouldn't have been able to sneak up on you, would I have? But the reason I'm here is because dawn is scarce an hour away and if Erynmir discovers you were in the woods - not to mention the Mistress - you both will be in much trouble."

"What about you?" Breeyid asked.

"I care not about their histrionics," Cirince murmured, pulling her wings in tight to her body with an audible snap. "But I do still think that we should make our way back to the Village now. As for you, wood woman of Linderyn, Forests of Song, I would watch your tongue before it leads you to trouble. Erynmir is mistress of this forest, stronger than you will ever be. The trees could be on her side. Beware what you speak in these woods, or it might get back to the wrong ears. Have a care."

Tauriel glanced at the woods, at all the surrounding trees, and sighed.

"We ought to get back to the Village. It'll be dawn soon," the violet-eyed half-_ravisoron_ suggested, glancing uncertainly at the sky. The strange, gray light of false dawn made her nervous, raised the feathers on her wings, back, and the nape of her neck, made the soft fur on her arms stand on end. She sniffed the air, and rubbed her eyes with a fist. She hated this time of night. It made her shiver in the cold, early morning air.

"Aye," the _Cenmarta_ maiden murmured. "We ought to."

"Yes," Tauriel replied. "Let's go."

And they walked back to the Village, anxious in the chill and dark pre-dawn morning.

**.**

"Now," Aragorn snapped as he hauled the youth down to sit on a log by the circle of stones surrounding the camp's fire pit. Much more gently, he laid the maiden-child on the ground on a bed of rushes that Halbarad had laid out, her head pillowed on Halbarad's coat. Her hair pillowed around her head in a silvery nimbus, and her eyelashes glinted like golden crescents in the firelight against her gaunt cheeks.

Anarmacil sat, rigid and furious, upon the ground, the fire half-illuminating his face. For the first time, Aragorn got a decent look at the boy's injuries.

His right ear was ripped and ragged, caked with black, congealing blood. His cheek was swollen, bruised, bleeding. Around the gash was a spot of bright white, centered in the middle of that large, black bruise on his cheek. That indicated a possible fracture. The left eyebrow was split down the middle, just barely scabbed over. His bottom lip was swollen, and he had a black eye. A thick, rigid scar the color of old blood ran beneath the new injuries from the left corner of his forehead to the opposite side of his chin. The lad's right arm was bound tightly to his chest, but the Ranger could see that despite the sling, the boy's arm was tied at a strange angle. His knuckles on both hands were scraped and bleeding. One finger was swollen and bluish, either sprained or broken. He held his foot out away from his body, also in a strange way. A twisted ankle?

"Now," Aragorn said again, this time far more gently. The boy looked badly used, as well. What had happened to these children? Orcs would've done far more damage, and animals would not have dealt this kind of injury. These children… had they been beaten? For a moment, his heart stirred with pity for the lad. "Now, boy…."

Then the youth opened his mouth.

All traces of pity vanished.

"Now what, vagabond?"

"Anar, shut up," Elluine whispered. Aragorn and Anarmacil both jumped and turned to see the fair-haired maiden lying on her side, gasping softly for breath. "Get down off your high horse. Just because you're nobility doesn't give you the right to be a butt."

"Did you just call me _a butt_?"

"Would you prefer 'Sir Butt?' Or 'Lord Butt,' perhaps? If you truly want to face off against me, I can certainly do even better."

The boy, Anar, glanced at her sharply and bit his lip, as if forcing back a smile, before he said, "I would wager you very well could, Ellie. But aren't you supposed to be unconscious, mud girl?" He poked her gently in the side, and she giggled tiredly.

"All right, _children_," Aragorn interrupted firmly. He was fighting, suddenly, to keep his mouth from quirking into a small smile. It was obvious that these two were good friends. Were they sweethearts, perhaps? "Now that you're done squabbling, perhaps you could answer some of my questions?"

"Certainly," Elluine replied in a breathy voice, sighing. "Y-yes…." She added softly... before passing out from exhaustion, her eyes fluttering closed.

"Elluine!"

Anar yelped her name and lunged to her side. He lightly slapped her cheeks over and over, whispering her name. She didn't so much as flutter an eyelash. For a split second, his mind blanked completely, and panic slashed at his senses. This was just like last time. Elluine would die, just like Nenimir and Mirilhun, his sweet little sisters. Everything was happening all over again! His father was right, it was his fault that his sisters had died by his hand. It was his fault, and now it would happen once more. It was fate, he was cursed. Elluine, Elluine….

Biting his lip, trying to maintain some semblance of control, the lad turned his stricken face up to Aragorn's. Asking for help sent shockwaves of self-loathing and bitterness through him, but it was his friend's life or his pride. His eyes were wide and fearful as he cried, "_Do something_! You said you would help her! _Please!_"

"I need water," Aragorn replied calmly, kneeling down beside the unconscious young woman.

He felt for her pulse. It was still there, but just as thready as before. Her skin was chilled - she might have been going into shock. The Ranger sought for calm inside himself, found his tranquility, and glanced at the youth, whose wide eyes were bright with obvious fear and a darker emotion turned inward.

"I am going to make her a special tea, and we are going to have to wake her up enough for her to drink it. But first I must wake her. Gil!"

Rovengil, a young Ranger with pale blond hair, approached and sketched a left-handed salute. Anar saw that he was one of the Peredhil, from the slight shadow of a beard on the jaw to the delicate points to his ears, framed by shorn golden hair. Anxiously, the youth glanced at Aragorn again.

"Gil, I'm sending you out for water," the Ranger commanded. "I want it quickly, do you understand?"

The Ranger nodded and disappeared into the trees.

Aragorn then lifted the girl up into his arms, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow. She was turned almost on her side, her hand curled into a loose fist against his breast. He tried to get her to lie upon her back, but when he moved her more than a fraction of an inch, she cried out in pain, so he stopped. He brushed her soft, silvery hair out of her face gently. She looked so young. Who would do this to such a sweet, young girl?

"She's older than me," Anar interrupted Aragorn's thoughts as the Ranger began going over what he would need. It was obvious to the Numenorean that the lad was speaking to fight against the sense of panic the Ranger could see rising in the boy's eyes. "Don't be fooled by her size. She hates that."

"Who _is_ she?"

"Why is he loose, Aragorn?" Halbarad demanded as he approached. Aragorn saw the boy jump in surprise. Apparently, he hadn't heard the other Ranger approach. "Why isn't he bound?" In his hand he held a sprig of _athelas_. In his free left hand he carried a small pouch, probably full of the same herb.

Anar said loudly, snidely, "Do you fear me? Is that why you wish to tie me up like some bandit? You cannot handle a single youth?"

Halbarad cuffed the youth hard enough that Aragorn frowned at him. Anar only grunted, though Aragorn could see tears of pain swimming in the lad's dark eyes. The offending Ranger then snarled, "Hold your tongue, boy, or you may lose it." Then he handed the pouch he carried to Aragorn and, kneeling down beside the prone figure of the cradled girl, broke the sprig of king's foil right beneath her nose. The sweet, pungent scent wafted up to her nose and she breathed it in. Aragorn counted to ten slowly, and the girl's eyes opened.

"Fetch me a candle, Halbarad, and light it for me."

"But Aragorn," his companion objected, casting a baleful glance at Anar.

The Ranger merely glanced at the other Man, who bowed his head briefly before fetching a candle from one of the supply packs. All the time, Aragorn kept his eyes on the girl's. They were a brilliant gray-blue, reflecting the stars of the sky in their depths. Her pointed, feral face was gaunt, from malnutrition, he knew. This girl had been badly abused, that was plain enough. He glanced at the boy, and saw his eyes were focused on the girl's pale face, golden flecks gleaming in their summer night-sky depths from the light of the flickering flames. He was chewing on his bottom lip, despite the swelling and the split bisecting his mouth. The boy hadn't complained once about his injuries, despite how they must have pained him. He obviously cared for the maiden the Ranger was trying to heal.

"Why do you want a candle?" The girl asked him softly. He shifted her again, trying to get her onto her back again to make her comfortable. But the maiden cried out, "Oh, no! No, don't! _It hurts_!"

"_Stop it_! You're _hurting_ her!" Anar snapped.

The fire crackled and flared, distracting him, and the soothing warmth and prettily dancing sparks were enough to help him catch a hold of his tongue and regain control of his incredibly short temper. He just wanted to be home! If he was home, everything would be all right. This would never have happened to Ellie and even if it had, he'd be able to summon Linde, his twin, and the healer she was training under so that someone with experience in these matters, real experience healing the _Liemuina_, could care for Elluine. Silently, he cursed his father.

Aloud, he said to the Ranger, bitterness and hate lacing his voice like poison, "If you can't hold her properly, maybe I-"

"Boy, _be silent_," Aragorn commanded, nearly all patience evaporating in the face of the boy's attitude. Maybe Halbarad had had the right idea, biffing him. "I'm _trying_ to _help_ her, not hurt her. It was an accident, I apologize."

He saw the girl reach out a hand to the lad, then draw it back, clenched into a fist against the pain. She squeezed her eyes shut. Aragorn touched a hand to her temple, and her face relaxed. He massaged gently, and then took the sweet smelling, beeswax candle from Halbarad when he brought it.

"We are low on candles. I had a somewhat difficult time finding one," he told Aragorn, who nodded his acknowledgment. Aragorn then managed to get the girl to sit up enough that he could test her eyes. It was just as he had suspected: she was incapable of tracking the flickering candle flame with her gaze, and her pupils were at different dilations. He sighed, but didn't let the news distract him from helping her.

"You have a bruise on your brain, girl," Aragorn said softly. "A concussion, do you understand? It is why you have been passing in and out of consciousness, and why your head aches so badly. Whatever healer saw to you before you set out on your journey should have noticed this and seen to it. You should have waited until you were healed of this before setting out on your path."

"We had no choice," Anar replied in the girl's stead. "They would have harmed her even further. We had her seen to by the best healer who would deign to tend to her, and she wasn't very old or experienced. She did the very best she could, but that was not very much."

"Who was this young, inexperienced healer?"

"She's the daughter of a great healer, but her mother didn't have time to teach her everything she wanted to before she was sent to the Village. That's usually the way it is with the ones sent there – we miss much of what our parents wish to teach us. Or our parents don't care and just want to send us away because we did something they didn't like." This last was said so bitterly that Aragorn turned towards the injured boy, only to catch sight of him scrubbing roughly at his non-bruised cheek, staring into the camp's dancing fire. The boy's eyes were full of hurt and hatred, and such loneliness that the Ranger wondered what could possibly have caused such a deep, bitter pain.

Aragorn murmured softly, "I know of no parents who love their children so very little, that they would send them away for any reason that was not for their own good. Surely whatever grief you bear, whatever grievance your parents have committed, the love between you cannot have suffered so terribly. Whatever has happened, it must have been to help you. They must have thought it was for your own good."

"Oh, yes, it's always for our own good, _isn't it_?" Anar snapped.

Halbarad moved as if to cuff him again, but Aragorn shook his head.

"It's always what's _best_ for _our_ sakes. No matter that they're ripping out their own child's heart, destroying every hope they'd ever had. No matter that they're taking away the only people that ever mattered, just because you made a few mistakes. They curse you, spit on you, beat you into the dust like a mangy cur. They abandon you in the middle of nowhere, leave you all _alone, _for no cursed reason! Simply because… just because… all because they hate you. And all for our own good, Aule curse them. Pox rot them all," the lad snarled hatefully. "Their loathing is for _our own good_. Explain that, Ranger of the North. Explain that to me."

Aragorn noticed the girl's eyes were fixed on the lad's face as he paled, his face pinched. He had a strange notion that the boy, while older than he looked, was younger than he seemed. There was a very deep emotional wound there, beneath all of that rough, tough exterior, a wound that was not only still bleeding, but festering. It was smoldering, just beneath the surface, waiting to explode. This child had such a wound. Where had he come by it?

"What mistakes can a parent not forgive their child?" Halbarad asked Anarmacil, voice gentle for the first time.

"Saving a forest from burning. Saving a people from unrighteous slaughter. Doing battle against the forces of darkness. Killing your sisters and falling in love," the lad replied, his voice dripping icy rage and disdain. "But _especially_ the last bit."

"_What_ did you-" The Ranger began.

"And _then_," the boy said forcefully, obviously trying to halt any questions about his bitter words. "We were forced to leave before Erynmir-"

" Anar!" The girl cried_. "Don't say that name in the forest! She'll hear you!"_

"She's not _the Night Princess_, Ellie, for the stars' sake! She doesn't _have_ that power."

"Who is the Night Princess?" Halbarad asked softly.

"The only princess I know of who can throw knives, pick locks, clean rooms, slay Orcs, play the harp - though not very well - and beat Morquanar at chess," the boy answered puzzlingly. "She's brilliant, like new stars or fireworks. She can make any man smile. I thank the Valar every morning and every evening for the existence of the Heir of Shadows, the Night Princess."

"You speak as if you know her."

"I-" Anar began, looking sheepish, and Elluine interrupted, "The other girl, you shouldn't say her name, Anarmacil. She's close to the forest. She might even be _in _the forest. It isn't safe."

Anar scrubbed at his face ineffectually. Aragorn realized the boy looked incredibly tired. He must have been, to let so much of his pain spill forth. "I wouldn't worry about it. Besides, I can handle that girl. She's nothing special."

"Then why haven't you faced her and made her stop being such a snobbish wench yet?" The maiden demanded. "_Don't_ say her name while we're in the forest, all right?"

"Very _well_," the boy murmured wearily. He laid himself down on his back, staring up at the sky. "If it vexes you so. I don't care."

Perplexed, Aragorn watched the exchange and wondered at it. Who was this Erynmir that the maiden was so frightened of? And who, or _what_, was a Night Princess? And what had the boy meant? Aragorn knew, he simply _knew_, that this boy was not a killer. Yet he had admitted to killing his own sister. And what was that about falling in love? These two, this maiden and this youth who was filled with such hatred and pain, what was their tale? Why were they running? Why had they been so badly hurt?

"You two are a puzzle, that is sure and certain," Aragorn murmured softly. "I must ask, boy, where _exactly_ did you get that knife of yours?"

"I told you," the youth replied. He sounded a bit calmer now that the Ranger had changed the subject. "I got all three of my knives from the white Beornings in the Misty Mountains. They're good at making weapons. They make things from _vilyekemen_. It's the greatest of metals. Only _mithril_ is better. My father... owns a... shirt of _mithril_ rings and a... _mithril_ sword..."

When nothing was forthcoming for a long while after that, the Ranger waited a moment and then looked over at the youth. What he saw was the boy, Anarmacil, having fallen fast asleep from pure exhaustion, was curled up atop his own cloak, his face turned towards the girl in Aragorn's arms. He cradled his left arm tightly against his chest, as if it pained him.

It was at this point that Rovengil came back with the water, and Halbarad made tea while Aragorn held Elluine in his arms, giving her comfort, as he carefully unwrapped the bandages around her hands. He saw the splinted fingers, and the purple and blue flesh, the swelling and bruising around pinpoints of white that indicated broken bones. He touched a gentle finger to the swollen, purple eye socket, and the girl hissed a breath. Rage made his voice soft when he spoke, but his anger was not at the girl.

"Forgive me," Aragorn murmured. "I'm not trying to hurt you."

"I know," she replied. She let her head fall against his chest. "Thank you."

"This will hurt a lot, dear lady."

"I know it," she answered. "I'm used to pain. I don't mind. And I'm not a lady." That was the last thing she said before drinking the _athelas_ tea. He knew from experience it would help the throbbing pain in her head immensely. When she'd finished the first cup, he tried to set her down upon her back again. She clenched her teeth and hissed, "_Please! Don't_!"

"Very well," he said. "Very well. But what is it? What pains you?"

"My..." She trailed off, and stared resolutely at the fire, pursing her lips together. She would not look at him, or answer his questions about why she could not lie down upon her back. She simply gazed at the crackling flames and said nothing. Her eyes glittered with tears of pain.

"Child, if you will not tell me, I cannot help ease your pain."

"I cannot tell you," she murmured. She shrugged self-consciously. "I swore to my mother that I would never say."

"You swore you would never say why you cannot lie down on your back like a normal person without crying out in pain?" Aragorn asked incredulously.

She refused to look at him.

The other Ranger, Halbarad, sighed and got to his feet. He started to walk away from the fire.

"Where are you going, Sir Ranger?" She asked him.

"Lady, I cannot stand by and watch your pain when you will not accept help from those who would give you aid. So I will take the first watch that would otherwise have belonged to your esteemed healer. I take my leave, Lady."

And he walked away.

The maid looked up at Aragorn.

"Do you intend to leave me as well, Sir Ranger?" She asked him. He shook his head. "Is there anything else you can do for me?"

"Well... I can see to the rest of your injuries, at least. If you will allow me?"

Aragorn set her, seated upright, upon the ground, and gently took her hand. He checked all the bruised fingers- index, middle, and little- to make sure the bones had been set properly. One hadn't- he winced at her small, stifled cry of pain as he set her little finger properly and splinted it again. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek. The broken fingers on the other hand had all been set properly. He bandaged them up.

"There's more, besides your head and your hands. There's your face. I could help with that, if you so choose."

One of her newly splinted hands came up to touch the welts on her face. She would always bear scars, even if he did help her. But if he got salve on them now, while they were healing, it would be nowhere near so bad. She would not be disfigured, at least.

"I don't know what you could possibly do, but you're welcome to try." She rubbed with the heel of her palm against one temple, her face furrowing in pain.

"Halbarad!" He called. "Gil!" Both Rangers came to him. "I need salve for the maiden, as well as another cup of tea." Aragorn focused on the girl as Rovengil went to get the tea, and Halbarad brought him the salve. The leader of the Rangers dipped his fingers in the cool, transparent green gel and smoothed it over the crisscrossing lashes on her face. It took a matter of seconds, and then he gave her a second cup of the healing tea, which she drained gratefully.

"Better?" He asked gently.

"Yes, sir."

"Were you whipped as well?" He could barely contain the anger rumbling behind his voice. She nodded once. "Then, may I see to the injuries on your back?"

"_No_!" She cried, loudly enough that Anar snorted in his sleep and shifted a little. She pulled out of his arms and was only saved from falling into the campfire by Aragorn lunging forward and hauling on her arm. She hissed in pain and fell to her knees, but she glared up at him from the tangle of her silvery hair.

"My lady-"

"_Do not_ touch my back. _Don't_. I don't care about scars, or pain, or whatever else you might dredge up as an excuse! _Don't touch my back."_

"I... very well," he said, bewildered. He nodded to Rovengil and Halbarad, who had leapt to their feet at her outburst. Both of them sat back and relaxed just a little. "My men will make up a bed for you beside your escort. One more cup of tea, I think, and then you may sleep safely."

She drank the tea, and laid down on the pallet the Rangers had set up for her beside Anar's sleeping form. However, she didn't sleep until dawn. The throbbing pain of her injuries and Aragorn's ministrations kept her awake until, when he had come back from his turn at watch and noticed she was still awake, he gave her a strong soporific that helped her to sleep.

It was long after the maid had fallen asleep that Aragorn himself fell asleep, drifting off to the accompaniment of a thousand questions revolving around in his brain.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Disclaimer - **I came up with the storyline, the Liemuina, etc. I did not come up with the hobbits, the Elvish language, or anything else copyrighted by someone other than me.

**Author's Note:**

_I was listening to the audio commentary of the Extended Two Towers DVD and I realized I had something (something short) that I wanted to say about the characters of Anarmacil, Breeyid, Cirince, Elluine, and Tauriel._

I noticed as I was rereading some of the chapters that all of the kids (because essentially, though some of them have lived rather a long time, they are still young for their species) are all longing for their homes. Tauriel, Elluine, and Anarmacil especially want to go home because, having lived for so long, they've had a lot of time to become attached to where they were born and raised. A big driver behind their characters - behind almost all the Village young ones, really - is that they were all _forced_ to leave their homes for various reasons.

Anar was exiled. Elluine and Cirince were sent away to keep them safe. Tauriel was sent away because, despite her great age, her powers haven't manifested yet. Breeyid was sent away because her mother died and her father didn't have the time to take care of her and her powers weren't manifesting properly. But all of them want to go home. Everyone wants to be where they feel they belong, and those five don't have that. It's a major driving force behind their characters. It's one of the reasons Cirince's such a snob, why Anar's so angsty, why Breeyid is so timid, and why Tauriel is so cold to people. It's a very powerful character motivator.

So, yeah, I just wanted to say that. Um… thanks for reading.

**.**

**Sources:**

_The Art of Amy Brown - __**book  
**__The Brothers Grimm - __**book  
**__Chronicles of Narnia - __**books  
**__Dark Curse by Christine Feehan - __**book  
**__Flowers in the Attic by VC Andrews - __**book  
**__The Golden Compass by Phillip Pullman - __**book  
**__The Golden Compass - __**movie  
**__Grimm Criminology: Demons of the Mind by LA Knight - __**fanfiction  
**__The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Rings - __**book  
**__The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Rings - __**movie  
**__Lothiriel by Juno Magic - __**fanfiction  
**__Meredith Gentry Series by Laurell K. Hamilton - __**books**_

Nevrast . net - **website  
**_Princess Mononoke by Hiyao Miyazaki - __**movie  
**__Strands of Starlight Quintet by Gael Baudino - __**book  
**_Tuckborough . net - **website  
**Uib. No/People/hnohf/wordlists . Htm - **website  
**Wikipedia . org - **website**

**Translation of words:**

Athelas- king's foil  
Caranna - red gift  
Cargaladh - redwood; literally "red tree" (1)  
Cargaladhon - redwoods; "red trees" (2)  
Liemuina- Hidden People, Secret People  
Lle lakwenien - Are you joking?  
Vilyekemen- sky earth (3)  
Yrch - Orcs

_1 - as far as I know, a redwood tree is the only tree with red bark. I couldn't find the word for redwood on Nevrast or on that one website that starts with "U" so I just used the words "red tree."_

_2 - I checked the grammar guides on Nevrast. I couldn't figure out how to turn "galadh" into its plural form. But I remembered that the capital city of Lothlorien is called Caras Galadhon; so I thought (hoped, wished, prayed) that galadhon was the plural form of galadh (which means tree)._

_3 - copyright belongs to Philip Pullman_

**Weapon Names:**

Calthilivern- Shining white light  
Iul- ember  
Silfatanyu - Hell Shines White  
Tinu- Spark (4)

_4 - copyright belongs to Juno Magic_

**Names of Places:**

1. Linderyn - Forests of Song; literally forests-song. This is the forest where Tauriel was born and raised. Humans know it as Fangorn.

2. Vorlhunaelin - Lake of Dark Blue; the lake where the tree called Caranna grows.

**References to other literature:**

- the concept of _vilyekemen_ was inspired by the "sky iron" mentioned in the _Golden Compass_. It is what the armor of the panserbeorne is made from.

- one of Anar's throwing knives, _Tinu,_ was inspired by the sword borne by the title character of Juno Magic's LotR fanfic, _Lothiriel._ It, too, was called _Tinu._

- the concept of paired throwing knives was inspired by the character Doyle in the _Meredith Gentry_ series by Laurell K. Hamilton. Doyle, Captain of the royal guard, has two throwing knives called Snick and Snack. I use this concept in another fanfic, _Demons of the Mind_, for my main character Razielle. She has two knives, Thornography and Nightwish.

- my take on Liemuina bloodlines as well as that phrase about "the cold light of the stars" is loosely inspired by the _Strands of Starlight_ series by Gael Baudino.

- much of Anarmacil's back story was inspired by the Grimm fairytale _Rapunzel_ as well as the book _Flowers in the Attic. _Some of Anar's character traits - such as his inability to trust - were inspired by the book _Dark Curs_e as well as the character San from the movie _Princess Mononoke._

**People Names:**

Ambarone - sunrise  
Anarmacil- sun blade  
Aragorn - royal valor  
Caranna - red gift  
Halbarad - tall tower  
Mirilhun - jewels of the blue  
Rovengil - I believe it was "wandering star" but I'm not sure  
Tauriel - contraction that means "forest maiden" or "wood maiden"  
Tuacso - bone and sinew


	8. 06 Days in the Forest

_**At the bottom of this chapter:**_

_Disclaimer  
Author's note on timelines  
Translations of names and words  
Reference to other literature  
Author's Note_

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**Chapter Six  
Days In the Forest**

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Nearly everyone in Anarmacil's life had always and often told him that he should act his age- all two-hundred-twenty-seven years of it. They had told him that, born as he was to power and privilege, he ought to be more grateful for that which he had and that he ought not to mourn that which he did not. On the outside, he did as they bid him. They- his mother and father, his brothers and sisters and cousins; they had all betrayed him with their insistence that he obey, that he do as they command and forget all about what it was that he had seen and felt and found, but was not allowed to keep. Forget it all - the battles, the pain of losing friends, the death of his brother Ellos, saving the forests of Buckland and Tuckborough from devastating wildfires… he was supposed to forget all of that. Never mind that he had saved people's lives. That was wrong, because they weren't Liemuina. They were Hobbits, and Big Folk. So his Father condemned him. Cursed him and stripped him of his rank in the Corbies. And always and ever, the insistence from everyone at Court that he forget, that he ignore the events during the Fell Winter and pretend that nothing had happened. He had become a man of his people during that time, and he had been told to forget.

On the inside, where it mattered most, he did not heed their demands. He ignored everything- even his common sense- that told him that everyone in his family was right. He had to ignore all that, or he'd go mad. Because his parents' insistence that he was so wrong, so terribly wrong, was what had forced him into exile in the Village. It was what had ripped his heart from his chest, leaving it to bleed in the dust. He had saved so many people, protected the helpless and the innocent, protected the precious land, and met the most tremendous lady… and he had been ordered to forget. But he wouldn't. He refused to forget the fallen comrades and the love he had lost.

Now, now all he had of that sweetness from before his banishment was the dreams. They were more like nightmares, really, because every time he awoke he tasted ashes in his mouth, the putrid taste of shattered dreams.

He was dreaming now.

It was innocent. They walked together in the Royal Gardens, while the sun sank behind the glittering palatial structures behind them. It was not the act committed in the dream that pained him. It was the exquisite detail. Anar could feel the warmth of the sun on his neck and back, through the white linen shirt and burgundy tunic, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Nairaloth's skin when he brushed back a flaming gold lock of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her delicately pointed ear, with its gleaming golden hoop and ruby drop. The sun's auburn light was sick and pale beside the amber glow of her eyes. Such a beautiful Narmarta, the Fated of Flame. Her eyes gleamed like honey in the light. Warmth throbbed in his chest when he looked at her, made his heart hurt. He could hardly catch his breath.

When he took her hand, he wondered at the heat like flame wrapped in silk. It was like holding a white hot star made of gossamer in his grasp. It had been a full month shy of eighty-two years since he had been free to take Naira's hand in his. It felt like a great stone weight in his chest when he thought of it, when he thought of her. He ached to tell her he missed her, that he needed her. He was tired of being apart from his family, from his twin sister, from his friends, from the girl that he loved. How had the other Village youths borne being so far away from their homes, their families? And how could he go on missing her for the rest of his life?

"Naira.…" He murmured, and then suddenly had the urge to glance over his shoulder. Was his father nearby? Even in a dream, he didn't want Morquanar to destroy this bittersweet time with his amber-eyed princess.

All he did was walk with her in the dream, the sun never setting at their backs, but always just above the horizon and just below the silhouettes of the Royal Family's home of silver veined black marble. The freesias and hyacinths smelled sweet, and the ivory roses were touched with peach and tangerine light.

"Naira-"

"Everything will be all right," she murmured. "Everything's all right. Everything's fine. I hope you sleep well tonight."

And she leaned over to him, so that her face was close to his. He could feel the warmth of her breath, see her bronze eyelashes lower to touch her cheeks like butterfly wings. Her pollen-silk lips touched his face, an ember warming his skin against icy reality. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

In the place where the Liemuina hid from the world, their fortresses and homes and towns veiled in mists and antiquity, magic and secrecy, there was a palace of black marble. Near to it was a tower made of white stone, like a cage of ivory bones picked clean by carrion crows. There was one door of black wood facing west, and single window at the very top that gave view to a single, Spartan room, barred with steel stained black as midnight. And inside that tiny tower room was a princess.

It was like something out of a fairytale, Nairaloth reflected, something so close to a story for children, to help them fall asleep at night. Except this was real life, and it hurt. It was a sharp pain in her chest, a dull ache in her bones. She wanted to go home, and she was locked inside this prison.

Her father had locked her up here. It was not as if she were not allowed to leave the tower. Her captivity was not so total as that. But she was not allowed to go anywhere unescorted. She was forbidden to speak to anyone except those sisters that were older than she, her female guards, and her parents. Her father was afraid that she would corrupt her brothers, or the men of the Court, or any male guardsmen.

After all, she had corrupted Anarmacil, her father's prize princeling.

Anarmacil. Even thinking his name made her wince. When her father had discovered that he was paying court to her- rather, when Anar had declared himself and their parents had so violently protested- her sweetheart had been sent away to the Village. That was a punishment place, a bad place. She knew that Anar would be lonely there. She had tried to plead his case to their parents, but they had refused to listen. She had told them it was a mistake, that they would never view each other in such a way again, that all would be as if nothing had happened between them. They would never pay court to each other, never marry, never even so much as touch in the way of sweethearts. But they had begged and begged not to be separated. She had sworn to do anything and everything for her parents, so long as they didn't lock her up and didn't send him away. To cage a flame was to kill it. But they ignored her. Their parents beat them both to within an inch of their lives, and parted them.

Anarmacil had been sent away from her. They weren't even allowed to say goodbye. Every time Anar had opened his mouth to speak, his father had struck him. But the look in his eyes had told her that he would find his way back to her, though hell should bar his way. And he had. He had fought his way back to her and lost everything in the attempt - even his ownsisters.

Naira bit her lip against the burning in the backs of her eyes. Blood dripped down her chin as her teeth pierced her lip. Blood welled up from between the fingers of her clenched fists as her nails pierced her palms. She refused to cry. She was a princess, and she had dignity. She would not weep like some heartbroken maiden in a fairy story, separated from her true love. Even though she was heartbroken. Even though, if the window of her room was not barred, she might have thrown herself from the tower to her death long ago.

Because she knew that no matter what happened, she would never see Anar again.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Aragorn had been awake for several moments when the boy awoke with a tortured cry. He watched the boy, hiding his concern behind his stern mask, as the youth rolled onto all fours and gasped for breath, his chest heaving. The leaves clinging to his tousled hair didn't hide the gleaming wetness on his cheeks, though he made no sound. His shoulders shook violently, and the youth hunched the narrow shoulders, as if expecting a blow. A soft keening crawled from between his tightly clenched lips, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the aching pain in his chest.

"Anarmacil?" The Ranger asked softly. He did not want to humiliate the lad, and he knew from experience that the discovery of tears would embarrass him. But such bitter sorrow was a burden no lad so young should be forced to carry.

"What do you want?" The lad demanded roughly. He shifted and sat down, drawing his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on his folded arms. He let his hair fall into his face, a thin golden brown veil over his eyes. It didn't hide the churning hell behind his gaze, or the sweat and tears glistening on his flushed face. His hands were clenched so tightly the knuckles were mottled, white and crimson. The breath fairly exploded from his flared nostrils, and his lips were now clamped shut so tight that a white line appeared around them. He was shaking, though with rage or some other vicious inner turmoil the Ranger did not know. He had never seen anyone look so defensive and bitter, not even Elrond or the twins, Elladan and Elrohir, and they had suffered so much. What could this boy have been through that made him look like that? So angry? So hurt? He'd never seen a child look that way. There was something about it that told Aragorn this was no trifling child's concern.

"Why were you sent to the Village? You said you fell in love." The long-legged Man kept his eyes locked on Anar's shuddering form. Maybe the boy just needed a sympathetic listener. Perhaps he had no close friends, no comrades. But then, who was the maiden he'd fallen in love with? And where was she? Dead?

"Her father didn't think I was a good enough match for her. They thought the attention I paid her at first was in friendship, so they allowed it. Then, when I declared myself to her mother- I didn't know who her father was, then, and she would not tell me- her mother sent word to her father. Her mother was the one to tell my parents what I had done."

Aragorn could see Anar's nostrils flaring, see the way he blinked so rapidly, as if fighting tears. The boy's hands were now clenched into fists. A single tear rolled down his left cheek and soaked a dark circle into his pale red shirt sleeve.

"Why did they reject you?" Aragorn wondered. There was nothing wrong with this boy. He was only a youth. Aragorn himself was a discerner of men and knew that this boy harbored no evil in his heart. There was nothing unwholesome about him. He was strong, healthy, and though immature, his age was of adequate account for that. He had the makings of a good and noble man about him. What more could a young woman's family hope for in a suitor? Unless she was of the nobility? But even then, women of the nobility had been known to accept the suit of a commoner. And surely the mere courtship of a maiden of the Peerage was not enough to warrant exile. Unless he had deflowered her in his youthful earnest. "Did you do her some ill?"

Anar bolted up right from his hunched position and snapped, "How dare you! I would never do anything to hurt her!"

"Then explain to me," Aragorn said calmly, stifling the urge to respond in anger. If he did, the boy would become silent and unresponsive. He wanted this story. It wasn't natural for a child to act this way. "Why were you rejected?"

"Because of my breeding," he snarled. "Because of whom my father was. Because of whom her father was. My father refused to even hear of it. Her mother was the mistress of a married man and I was- _am_- a prince of my people, though not a very important one. I hadn't known, and neither had she. Her mother had never told her and... well. It doesn't matter now. I'm never to see her again."

"But surely," the older man replied. "When you are older and both your fathers have passed away, and if you are a prince as you say, then you can free your lady from her incarceration, if you choose to do so by then, and-"

"My father will kill her if I try to see her again," the boy replied. He got to his feet. "And forever is a long time to wait for the old bastard to die. And my brothers, as well. They will stand in my way. Only my lady and my twin sister are behind me, and the three of us have little power in our world, though much in this one."

Silently pondering that comment about forever, and the words about power, and wondering why Anarmacil's brothers would prove to be his enemies, Aragorn only said, "Explain."

Anarmacil murmured, "In this world, a good sword, a trade, and the skills of the wild will make you a rich man. You can make yourself a home, a living, and protect your family. In our world, your fate rests on the whims of my father. With a muttered word from him, lives can be wiped out in moments. Rumors are whispered of assassination, of hopes that someone will kill him and save our Court. I hope that day comes soon, so that I can go home." He glanced around, then stared off into the depths of the surrounding forest. For the first time, he didn't feel as if someone was dogging his footsteps, anxious to attack him as soon as he let his guard down. For the first time since he'd walked away from the Village, he could breathe far more freely.

But they still needed to get out of this forest before Erynmir caught up to them.

Tilting his head back a little, he gave a shrill whistle, and then listened for a long moment. From far away, he heard the rustling of leaves and the whicker of a horse.

"You want your father to die?" Aragorn asked incredulously. "He is your king, your captain, your father-"

"I do not need to justify myself to you," the youth snarled, and began walking out of the camp. The Ranger sentries looked first at him, then at Aragorn, who asked, "Where do you go?"

"To find my horse, sir. The dawn has come, and my friend and I need to soon be on our way before Erynmir comes after us."

"Your friend is not well enough to travel," the Ranger protested.

"Erynmir comes. Necessity dictates that we leave your camp soon."

"Who _is_ this Erynmir? You speak of her with fear-"

"I fear no one," Anarmacil ground out from between clenched teeth.

"Very well," he replied, trying to let no hint of disbelief into his voice. "If that is the case, why are you concerned that she is coming after the two of you?"

The boy stopped at the edge of the camp and turned to look at Aragorn. Now there was a blank look in his eyes, a strange look. Aragorn recognized it as the look of a man who had been asked "who butchered your wife?" Or "who murdered your father?" And the culprit was standing right in front of the person, just begging to be killed. It was a look of pure, blinding hate.

"Erynmir is the last person I want searching for Elluine, and she is hunting us as we speak. And if Erynmir finds Elluine, I am not sure that I am strong enough to keep her from hurting Ellie even more. So I'm going to go get my horse, if you do not mind."

And he walked away, leaving Aragorn to wonder just what sort of woman this Erynmir could possibly be, that Anar was concerned about his ability to protect his friend.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Cirince Fletcherson sat in the boughs of the tallest tree ringing the Village clearing, watching the sun rise over the tops of the elder and fir trees. The copper and gold and bronze light, mingling and dancing among peach and fuchsia clouds, reminded her of her mother. That sweet, tender thought was one of the rare pieces of sentimentality she allowed herself these days. That is, the thoughts brought about by the rising dawn as well as the long, crimson feather on a rawhide strip tied around a braid that hung in front of her left ear. Her father was left-handed. The feather belonged to him as well. It was a parting gift. That feather was the second bit of soft-heartedness she allowed herself.

Her parents, at least, had had no choice in sending her away to the Village. It was battles, and danger, and the threat of Orcs that had forced her father to admit it was safer for her to come here, far away from the _ravisoron,_ her father's people, and her mother. She had been young- she was young still. She was only fifteen.

Her Liemuina blood forced her to mature slowly. Her _ravisoron_ blood sped up the process a little, but not much. She was, really, a little girl. And she hated being apart from her parents and her friends. But she had a job to do here- her father, at least, knew that. That was why he'd sent her the knife and the second feather: another gleaming, blood red, rigid silk feather, hanging in the same fashion as the other, but on her right side.

She herself was right handed.

The knife was made from a carved _ravisoron_ claw. It was wicked sharp, capable of cutting straight to the bone through leather armor, and almost as long as her forearm. She wore the crimson claw in a scarlet sheath at her hip.

It was a symbol of great trust among her people, to give another one of your feathers. And the knife… it was also a gift from her father. Two of your father's feathers and a knife made from a shed talon were symbols of the first step to adulthood among the _ravisoron._ The idea made her shiver. She was a fledgling, shoved early from the nest. It was why she had been given these gifts- the feathers of a maiden, not a child, and a warrior's knife. When she passed the second test of adulthood, she would receive… well, she did not know. Her mother was mortal, a human. She had no feathers to give, and no talons. What was she supposed to do then? She lovingly caressed the bone hilt of her knife, trying to ignore her fears for the future. She turned away from the sun rising in the East and back towards the Village. Movement caught her eye.

As Cirince watched Erynmir scurry like a cockroach from the Moon House to the edge of the forest and slip away into the shadows of the forest, and Tauriel and Breeyid follow, carrying packs for their journey, the young Liemuina healer knew she was most certainly going to need that knife very soon.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Tauriel had absolutely no idea why she was doing this. It was practically suicide. She, a mere _tavari,_ was no match for the future Wood Witch of Buckland. Yet here she was, roaming the Old Forest _on her own._ Wherefore would she do such a thing? Because she was following Erynmir, at the behest of her own inner voices, and because the Night Princess had demanded it. Their combined intuition told her that the green-eyed witch of a girl was still stalking Anarmacil and Elluine, despite Anar's orders to leave them be. What exactly did Erynmir plan to do, anyway? It was not as if she could do any harm to Anarmacil. That, too, would be suicide. The Royal Family would butcher the wood witch, like a hungry wolf and a helpless, newborn lamb.

"Why are we doing this again?" Breeyid asked, following close behind her. The half-Liemuina girl clutched her sling in a grip so tight, her knuckles were mottled and pale and her fingers ached. Her leather pouch of sharp, little sling stones was a heavy weight against her hip. "Are we not likely to die doing this? I thought we were likely to die."

"Do you honestly think Erynmir would kill us for following her?" Tauriel demanded, trying to sound less than half as frightened as she actually felt. It was an uphill battle, but the young woman pressed on. "She would not dare."

The terrified Breeyid simply looked at her. _Erynmir_ would not dare? Considering who her mother was, Erynmir might very well dare as much as she jolly well liked. And if there was a high likelihood of dying, the half-Liemuina wanted to know about it so that she could prepare herself.

"Do you know where she's gone, exactly, Tauriel?"

"No," she hissed tersely.

Not that she didn't desperately wish she knew. It would make this whole ordeal much less nerve wracking. But the girl had already tried tracking Erynmir down, both in the way of the _Cenmarta_, the Earth-Fated, and the Rangers. Neither method had worked. Erynmir was taking extra care to keep herself concealed from watchful eyes. Tauriel didn't have the power or the skill to break through that concealment. That fact pricked at her like a thorn. It had been four days since Anar and Ellie had left the Village, three since the dryad and the Cenmarta maiden had set out to follow Erynmir. There had been no sign, not even a whisper from the trees. It made the Tavari incredibly nervous.

"What are we going to do when we find her?" Breeyid asked softly.

Tauriel could feel the younger girl's eyes on her as they crept through the woods, the branches brushing gently, almost lovingly, against their faces. Breeyid's bare feet sank into the loam. Everything seemed muffled and still, as if they walked in a sacred, ancient place. The older girl's grip on her bow and one arrow relaxed a little, so that her hands didn't ache quite so much. She anxiously looked around, wondering where Cirince was at this moment. Much as she hated to admit it, she would very much like to have the winged girl at their backs.

"Well, Tauriel?" Breeyid asked again. "When we find Erynmir, what will we do?"

"I do not know. We cannot kill her. We cannot fight her. I do not know. I only know that my heart says we must go into the forest. Perhaps some ally will come to us."

"Who?" Breeyid whispered, voice laced with dry sarcasm. "A hobbit warrior?"

"A prince of the Halflings, perhaps," Tauriel replied, equally sarcastic. "A prince and a squire, swords drawn and banners flapping in the wind as they ride to our rescue. Would not _that_ be something?"

"Yes," Breeyid murmured, rolling her eyes at the thought. "Yes, it would."

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

"Run!" Teenage Merry cried over his shoulder, clutching the bag of radishes in one little fist. Behind his hurrying Hobbit feet came Pippin, clutching a sack of turnips and potatoes. Behind them both came the yipping and barking of farm dogs, and the cries of an angry farmer. Farmer Maggot, to be precise. This was the third time this month that they'd raided his vegetable gardens.

"Maybe... maybe we should... stop... doing this... M-M-Merry!" Pippin managed to gasp out as they ran to the edge of the cornfield. They were trying to get to the forest. If they made it to the edge of the forest and just a little ways beyond, they'd be home free! Farmer Maggot was one of those suspicious lot afraid of the Old Forest. They'd be fine, for the old farmer would never set foot in the Forest where the Village resided. That fact made Pippin a little hesitant about setting his own two hairy little feet in the Forest's leafy expanse, but it was either that or explain to his Mother, Esmerelda, why such a promising young sprite of a Hobbit kept stealing things.

"Only when we're old and grey, Pip!" Merry replied as they both crossed the border separating the forest from the farmer's fields. They bounded a few more yards as fast as their fat, young Hobbit legs could carry them... and slammed right into two young women.

Luckily, Tauriel had unstrung her bow and put the arrow back in the quiver on her back, so no one was seriously injured by her weapons. But both young women gasped in outrage to find a pair of sturdy Hobbit lads flung upon their fronts, and two young Hobbit faces buried in the soft mounds and shallow valleys of the two young Village maidens' bosoms.

Eleven-year-old Pippin immediately scrambled off of and away from thirteen-year-old Breeyid, hastily apologizing. He knew that while pulling hair or shoving down or throwing mud at any girls related to him was considered tolerable, if not acceptable and laudable, doing anything ungentlemanly to a young woman not of one's acquaintance was fiercely frowned upon. He inquired after her health, to which she tremblingly answered that she was quite all right and would he kindly help her find her pouch of sling stones, as it had flown from her hand when she'd collided with the ground.

Nineteen-year-old Merry was slower to remove himself from his precarious, scandalous position, though his reluctance was unconscious. For just a moment, he held incredibly still and listened to the sound of the thundering heart pounding against his cheek, pumping in time with his own racing heart. His mind subconsciously memorized every piece of detail of this position- the soft linen dress, the even softer flesh, the sound of the maiden's shallow breathing and the feel of her hand on his back through the thick wool of his cloak, jacket, vest and shirt. He'd never been so close to a woman of his own age before. For a moment, all he could think of was how comfortable he was. He smiled, lost in his own world, until slender but strong hands wrench at his jacket.

"Get off of me!" The maiden yelped breathlessly, shoving at his shoulders, jerking at the brown, woolen cloak. It was then that he came back to his senses and removed himself, mumbling apologies and blushing crimson.

"Are either of you hurt?" Breeyid asked timidly.

"No," mumbled Merry, staring resolutely at the ground. If he looked up, he was certain his eyes would immediately fasten themselves to the soft, sweet place his face had called home only brief moments before, and he would surely embarrass himself and shame his family forever. Instead of looking at her, he asked softly, "Are you?"

"Only my pride," the rather tall, willowy young woman muttered darkly, brushing herself off. She knelt and lifted a quiver from the ground. One of the straps had broken in the fall, but she didn't care about that. Instead, she quickly inspected the unstrung bow and the green fletched arrows to ensure that there was no damage. There was none. Only some dirt. Smiling at last, she brushed back a lock of hair and said, "I'm Tauriel. This is Breeyid. And you are?"

"Meriadoc Brandybuck," he said, and found himself looking at her again, but this time into her eyes like the wild woods. The smile on her face reached the dark depths of her wild eyes. "Son of Saradoc. Merry."

"Peregrine Took, but most people call me Pippin."

Breeyid tugged on Tauriel's sleeve. It was the only reason why the _Tavari_ didn't open her mouth to say, "Well, then, I'm Tauri and this is Bree." She would have, too - the two Hobbit lads were so charming and their faces were so open and kind, a refreshing change from the snide, cruel faces of the Village inhabitants - but then that slight tug on her dress sleeve brought her back to her senses. She had been about to give away their nicknames to two Hobbits! Yavanna curse it, she had to be more careful! Like a nitwit, she'd already said her name and Breeyid's to the two Halflings. What was the matter with her? She'd grown lazy in her old age. Besides, she and Breeyid were supposed to be looking for Anarmacil and Elluine, or Erynmir, whichever they happened to find first. They didn't have time to flirt with Hobbit boys.

_Flirt? _She thought at herself, surprised. Since when had this turned into flirting? Since Meriadoc - Merry, she told herself - had landed face first in.... She blushed, and shook herself mentally. It was best not to go there. It had been an accident and besides, she was Liemuina, Cenmarta, and the Hobbit folk would forget about her and Breeyid as soon as they were out of sight. There was no point to making friends with them if they never remembered you. Besides, she was countless centuries older than this young Hobbit boy. It would be foolish for her to look at this as anything other than a brief conversation.

"We have to go," she said suddenly, hastily. She grabbed Breeyid, who had regained possession of her pouch of sling stones, and turned as if to run away from the very sight of them.

"Wait!" Merry cried.

Damning herself, Tauriel hesitated, and turned back to him, eyebrow arched in query. Something about the two young ones drew her in, a fly to honey. It slightly irritated her, that the innocence in their faces would pull in someone as jaded as herself. But something about the two young men sucked in her trust, her goodwill. She felt a muscle under her eye twitch at the idea. It was ludicrous and yet... and yet, there it was. She felt an immediate liking and trust for the two.

Damn it.

Merry said, slowly, as if suddenly unsure of himself, "Will you... will you join us later? We're going to Hobbiton now that we've gotten our booty," he added, holding up the sack of vegetables. He thought he saw a ghost of a smile on Tauriel's face. "There's a party there in a few weeks. Old Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, he's turning one hundred and eleven this year. It's going to be a party of 'special magnificence.' We're staying at his home for the time being."

Tauriel turned to Breeyid, running a hand through her dark hair. Why was her heart fluttering in her chest? Because Anar had said that he and Elluine were going to Hobbiton? How long would it take the two Cenmarta maids of the Village People to find Hobbiton on their own? They'd never before been. But Ellie and Anar... they might be nearly there by now. Perhaps they ought to go with Merry and Pippin.

_It's against Liemuina Law to turn down an invitation, _she thought quickly, her eyes flicking back and forth between the Hobbits and Breeyid. _And I can talk to Merry... I mean, about this Bilbo Baggins, who seems to remember Elluine by name. _Aloud, she said, smiling, "All right. Certainly."

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Elluine awoke slowly, all of her stiffness, aches, and pains returning like a wave running over her body. But that was all right, because the pain was diminished. The Ranger's medicine and care had truly been helping her these last few days. And Anar seemed to have come to terms with Aragorn in these past five days, because the young prince and the Ranger worked well in tandem, tending their tiny campsite to hide any evidence of their habitation as well as saddling the black and dun horse, who had been groomed and fed while she slumbered.

"So, you're awake, are you, mud girl?"

"Lord Butt, your ego is showing. Is being _Narmarta_ so much better than _Nenmarta_? Just because I like swimming in the river-"

"And getting mud all over you," Anar added seriously, but the gleam in his eyes made her smile at him. But she sobered when he held out his hand. She eyed the limb dubiously, unsure if the injured appendage could take her weight. Correctly interpretting the water maid's look, the youth replied, "It can hold your weight. Those Rangers actually know some stuff about medicine. And you can answer any calls of nature later. We must make haste and be far from here come mid-morn. I sense a Wood Witch nearby." He grabbed her hand, but carefully, all too aware of the brittle, barely healing bones, and hauled her to her feet. Pain shot through his arm, but he only gritted his teeth and sucked in breath. Breaks didn't heal completely in a handful of days, not even for the Liemuina.

Aragorn came up behind her, startling her, and lifted her up onto the horse.

"How close is she?" Ellie asked softly. Anar glanced in the direction of the rising sun and smiled. It was not a good smile.

"We can outrun her. There are _dogs_ in her way."

Aragorn caught the wide-eyed look on the injured young woman's face and wondered what kind of dogs could inspire that strange, mixed look of awe, affection, and fear. Ignoring that question, as he ignored and saved away so many questions about the people of the Village, he only turned and signaled to the forest, and Halbarad came out of the trees.

"What is he doing here?" Anarmacil demanded.

"We're nearly to Hobbiton," the long-legged Ranger replied.

"He can't come with us," Anar snarled, suddenly surly. The other Ranger glanced first at Aragorn and then gave the youth a disdainful look, but did not speak.

"I wouldn't have suggested it," Aragorn replied, unruffled. "I'm telling him to go back to our camp. I'm leaving him in charge until I return. _I_ am coming with you." At this revelation, the young man's face broke into what might have been called a smile. The Ranger could scarcely believe it. He ignored the smile, as he ignored much about these two young travelers, and mounted his own horse, a blood bay gelding, and said tersely, "Come. We ride to Hobbiton."

It did not escape Aragorn's notice that Anar kept one hand on the hilt of his strange long knife as they rode. It did not escape Anar's notice that Aragorn kept his hand near his sword as well. Elluine was nearly asleep behind Anar, so Aragorn spoke to the youth instead of to the maiden.

"Why are you running from your people?" The Ranger asked.

Anar turned his face away, scanning the dark woods. How many times had Aragorn asked him this question? Why did he keep asking? Anarmacil was not going to tell him. So why did he keep pushing? Ignoring the urge to curse, the boy instead kept his gaze focused on the path before him, and replied, "Why do you constantly press me?"

"You carry a great burden, Anarmacil Sunblade. This I know from your night terrors and the name you call out in your sleep. You suffer day by day - this I see in your eyes. You long for your people, and yet you run from them. Why? You want so much to go home. I hear it in your voice when you speak of your mother, your sisters, your other kin. Yet you are running to the Halflings, instead of returning to your Village. Explain, my lad. I do not understand you and the girl. You will not tell me why the both of you were beaten. Why do you refuse to trust me?"

"You look like my brothers," Anar said suddenly. "My brother Tuacso, and my brother Ranlang. They joined the Rangers a long time ago. I haven't seen them since." He turned to Aragorn. "My mother didn't stop my father from exiling me. She didn't even try. Only Linde argued on my behalf. She is the heir, so my parents listened. The brothers still at home refused to stand up for me. The ones that might have done had left years before. My sisters were busy mourning the loss of Nenimir, the youngest of us all. She died trying to protect me."

"You cannot blame yourself," Aragorn protested.

"I don't," the boy replied calmly. "My father does. I loved my sister. I feel no guilt about what part I might've played in her death. But my father and mother refuse to forgive me. My brothers despise me for my 'dalliances,' as they call it, with my lady. They offer me no mercy, no love. Only my sisters long for my presence, and many of them but the oldest have forgotten my face in the years I've been gone. I am forgotten. And though I no longer hate them for it, I no longer trust them, either. And I will not trust you, until you prove yourself to me. It will take longer than five days for you to do that. You won't live long enough to prove yourself to me."

He clicked his tongue, and urged his horse forward. Aragorn watched him move ahead, and thought how the emotion behind the boy's eyes, behind his words, had been so much like a plea for help.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

**Stay tuned for chapter 7: A Stir in Hobbiton**

**And chapter 8: By the Brook**

**Disclaimer- **I came up with the storyline, the Liemuina, etc. I did not come up with the hobbits, the Elvish language, or anything else copyrighted by someone other than me.

**A/N: **Bilbo's Birthday Party is set in the year 3001. Here are the Hobbits' birthdates and ages accordingly, in alphabetical order.

Bilbo - 2890 - 111  
Frodo - 2968 - 33  
Merry - 2982 - 19  
Pippin - 2990 - 11  
Sam - 2980 - 21

Anarmacil- sun blade  
Aragorn- royal valor  
Cenmarta - Earth fated  
Elluine - star river  
Erynmir - jewel of the forests; forest jewel  
Halbarad- tall tower  
Liemuina- Hidden People, Secret People  
Linde - song  
Mithril- true silver  
Nairaloth - I can't remember if it means "sun blossom" or "fire blossom." I think it's "fire blossom."  
Narmarta - fire fated  
Nenmarta- water fated  
Ranlang - moon blade  
Tauriel - contraction that means "forest maiden" or "wood maiden"  
Tuacso - sinew and bone

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

References to other literature:

The line Nairaloth says, "Everything's all right. Everything's fine, and I hope you sleep well tonight" is from the musical, _Jesus Christ, Superstar._ It's sung by Mary Magdalene.

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In the words of JunoMagic:

Anything at all:

If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.

You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Please feel free to leave a comment!

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w w w. uib. no/People/hnohf/wordlists. htm  
w w w . n e v r a s t . n e t  
w w w . t u c k b o r o u g h . n e t  
The Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Rings (book)  
Jesus Christ, Superstar  
Dune


	9. 07 Hobbiton

**At the bottom of this chapter is:**

Author's Note  
Facts of Canon and Non-canon  
Translation of Elvish words  
List of Sources & Inspiration

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**Chapter Seven  
Hobbiton**

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"You should not trust him,"Anarmacil Carlothel muttered to his companion under his breath. The ash-blonde Elluine turned to glance at him over her shoulder, frowning in confusion while trying to hide her wince of pain as abused muscles protested the sudden movement. The young man riding pillion behind her added, "He's someone we have every reason to fear. Don't be so confident that he has our best interests at heart just because he healed us and helped us."

"You are such a cynical, suspicious person. What is the matter with you?" The Nenmarta demanded. "Aragorn has done nothing but help us since we met him. If he wanted to hurt us, he probably would have done it by now."

"And this," Anar replied, scowling. "This is why you always end up bleeding when we meet new people. You're far too trusting."

"And you are far too doubting," his friend replied, and turned her face decisively away from his to watch the path disappearing beneath the hooves of the large dun stallion on whose back they currently rode.

Anarmacil glared at nothing, his thoughts turning inward like a pack of wild dogs, circling his mind, gnawing at him. What Ellie said was true. Aragorn had only been a help to them in the seven days since they had run into each other in the depths of the Old Forest of Buckland. He had set Anar's broken arm, treated Elluine's wounds, and escorted them through the woods to Hobbiton. But the youth could not bring himself to trust the stern warrior of the Dunedain. The Rangers had done nothing but cause him grief nearly all of his life - taking three of his older brothers from him just when he needed them most, giving his father even more cause to try and twist his children's minds against the other Races, delaying his escape with Elluine from Erynmir's slowly encroaching grasp. It was too much to ask that after only a week he would be asked to trust a man who was far too congenial for the boy's peace of mind. In Anarmacil's world, people were never this accomodating without an alterior motive.

"We're almost to the edge of the woods that ring Hobbiton," a stern, commanding voice broke the Liemuina boy's reverie.

Scowling, Anar looked back at Aragorn, who watched him with cool, grey eyes. Suddenly nervous, the youth reached up to tug at the metal hoop that he failed to remember was no longer hanging from his ear. Instead, his fingers touched tender, nearly raw flesh. He flinched and jerked his hand away. When he noticed the Ranger still watching him, his scowl grew fiercer.

He could scarcely wait for the time when he and Ellie would be free of him and his interference.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Frodo Baggins strode through the little copses of trees scattered throughout the countryside surrounding Hobbiton, a book clutched under his arm, one overall strap hanging half off his shoulder. When he'd awoken this morning from a dream scarcely half remembered -

_- a pale, slender hand, its only ornament a ring caked in dirt and mud, the flesh white as a fish belly against the pitch dark stains of soot and grime, reaching desperately for a bloody hand, black with filth and limp against greasy, tenebrous rock -_

- he couldn't find it in himself to have a decent breakfast like a normal Hobbit and then lounge around in Bilbo's library for the better part of the day. So he left, his favorite book on Elvish history tucked under his arm, in search of a quiet place in the wilds of the Shire to read. Now he walked on, feeling the sun-warmed earth beneath the thick soles of his leathery feet, and thought.

For seven days, he had had strange dreams that he could barely recall upon waking. His half-waking thoughts, when combed for clues later in the day, could only offer up hazy images of countless pairs of blue eyes - turquoise blue, cornflower blue, summer sky blue, midnight blue, crystal blue, royal blue, blue-grey, and green-blue - and that pathetic, little hand reaching, stretching bleeding fingertips to attempt to touch the bloody appendage just out of reach. The eyes filled him with unique emotions, too many to count, but the picture in his dreams of that vainly grasping hand against a backdrop of hellish tones too hazy to be discerned made his heart thunder, his eyes burn as if with tears, and a lump come into his throat.

He could not fathom the meaning of it, but it haunted him in waking life when his thoughts were otherwise unoccupied. Frustrated as the image replayed in his mind over and over, he threw himself down on the brush and propped himself against a tree, opening his book to the place marked by a red ribbon.

He allowed his mind to be drawn into the past, into recountings of the tales of Earendil and Gil-Galad and other Elves of the past. But always at the back of his thoughts was the sight of the desperate grasp of that slender hand and the strange feeling of recognition. It was only when the Hobbit heard the sound of humming that all other thoughts but this one were shoved the back of Frodo's mind -

_Gandalf!_

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

Ah, how he loved the Shire.

The old man in grey, perched nimbly atop his pony-cart full of secret delights and remarkable toys, whistled cheerily to himself as the little wagon wound its way up a charming path on a grassy hill. When he cleared the rise, keen eyes the color of new steel alighted on the bustling town below him. Yes, he dearly loved the Shire, and in all the country of the Halflings there was no village, town, or hamlet he loved more than Hobbiton, and in Hobbiton no homestead afforded him more hospitality than Bag End.

He whistled merrily as his conveyance ambled down the trail, his little pony walking with easy, light steps. As he passed little Hobbit holes and tiny farms, many of the Halflings stopped to watch him go on his way. Many young Hobbits smiled and waved or called greetings, though their parents scowled and scolded them for being so familiar. Daisy and Rosy Cotton both tossed a wildflower from their bouquets onto the bench beside the old wizard as he passed, commenting that they hoped he would stay for Bilbo Baggins' birthday party, so that they might see his marvelous fireworks.

His twinkling eye and cheerful smile hid a more serious purpose than coming to entertain at what was rumored to be a party of special magnificence. He hadn't known his presence was necessary when he'd passed the borders of the Hobbit country earlier in the week. Then his only purpose had been to visit a friend for a very special birthday. But as he'd drawn nearer and nearing to Buckland, and passed through it, a strange sense of unease had filled him, preying on his mind. His dreams had been full of fire and flood, and Narya sat heavy on his hand. When the Master of Buckland, Seradoc Brandybuck, had asked him, and the wizard had mentioned bad dreams and a nervous feeling, the Hobbit's wife had nodded wisely and said the Village was in an uproar and that the Forest was unsettled.

He knew about the Village. The _Istari_ were the only Race who could pierce the magic of Liemuina, and Gandalf had often visited the three habitations within the Shire that the Hidden People called their own. But it had been many years - indeed, not since the Fell Winter - that he had gone to the Village in the heart of the Old Forest. He very much wished to know what had the place so upset that he could sense it without any effort at prescience.

Still whistling, he scanned the faces of the Hobbits who went about their lives, studiously ignoring the wizard and cart as if their very lives depended upon it. He saw no sign of disquiet or unease on their fresh, honest faces. Whatever was wrong in the Village, it had not affected those here.

Nothing in the Shire's happy atmosphere changed in the slightest until Gandalf reached what would have been a ravine if it were some ten or fifteen feet taller. As it was, infantile hills with ragged, almost chopped edges that would've been cliffs if they'd been bigger, rising perhaps six or seven feet above the road, lined the pathway, giving it a bit of a claustrophobic feel to someone nearly as tall as the so-called cliffs themselves. Atop the cliffs were trees, planted long ago as a means to pretty up the roadsides and having grown wild for some three or four hundred years. Seated as he was on the cart bench, Gandalf's head was only a foot higher than the cliff top. As he made his way through the little ravine, something in the trees rustled, and he tugged gently on the reins, slowing the pony's pace. From the dense foiliage came a hurtling form in black and green, which skidded to a halt and planted its hairy foot on a large boulder on the edge of the little cliff.

"You're late."

At these inaccurate words, the wizard drew the cart to a halt and looked up at the Hobbit who so boldly stood upon the cliff top, staring at the wizard. The old man sighed and pushed back the brim of his pointy, gray hat.

"A wizard is never late, Frodo Baggins," he said gravely. "Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to."

For what seemed like long moments, they struggled to keep their faces somber, but after a short span of seconds both Hobbit and Wizard burst out in happy laughter. Frodo launched himself from the cliff top onto the wagon, throwing his arms around the grey-bearded Big Person, still laughing, and managing to say, "It's wonderful to see you again, Gandalf!"

"Well, you didn't think I'd forget your Uncle Bilbo's birthday?"

The Hobbit youth - only two months away from becoming a fully grown Hobbit in the eyes of Shire folk - hitched a ride on the wagon which, under several thick horse blankets, hid a cache of treasure worth many an apple or ha'penny to Halfling children: Gandalf's fireworks. Several children gazed longingly after Frodo in his position of high honor beside the mysterious, giant wizard who had such lovely fireworks. Chuckling at the eyes on him, Frodo commenced to tell Gandalf all of his simple news - including the fact that the wizard had been labeled a disturber of the peace - and to question him about the party and any goings on from the outside world beyond the Shire's borders. Finally, the talk rolled around to Frodo's dreams.

"Dreams, you say? What sort of dreams?" Gandalf asked, watching his young friend from the corner of his eye.

The Halfling looked at the passing countryside as he fiddled with a yellow wildflower, trying to gather his thoughts. He took a breath, wondering where to begin, and simply plunged into recounting the week's worth of dreams - what he could remember of them. He told the wizard about the five rings, the countless blue eyes, and the slim, white hand. He spoke of the strange presentiment that something sinister came out of the East, and that some chain of events would be put in motion by the birthday party that loomed in just two months' time. Finally, he told Gandalf about the invitation he had sent to the Village via post two weeks ago, and why.

Frodo was surprised when Gandalf frowned fiercely and muttered something uncomplimentary about letters and birthday parties.

"Why?" The Hobbit demanded, confused. "What wrong have I done, to deserve such censure? If she does not wish to attend, no one will force her."

"On the contrary," Gandalf murmured, his voice gentler now. "By inviting her, you have forced her to come, whether she wills it or no. By law, her people cannot refuse an invitation without giving mortal insult. Only when the invitation is extended by an acknowledged enemy is this law considered waived. They will come, the Village, and they will behave themselves because they are gracious guests, but they will be angry behind all their polite smiles and bows and courtesies. Luckily, you and Bilbo are not farmers, or I would be concerned for your livelihood."

"Why? I don't understand. She saved my life. Why would she harm me?"

"The fact that she saved you from drowning makes me curious to meet this girl. I have met the people of the Village before, but never this Elluine Moraelin. I do not know her, or even the surname. The Liemuina rarely involve themselves in the lives of the other Races. She is a very different being, if she rescued a Hobbit child from drowning. But the other Liemuina... they will be angry with you... and with her. I do not know if...."

The wizard trailed off, eyes clouded by thoughts both dark and depressed, and it was only Frodo plucking at his sleeve that brought him back to the present. Smiling apologetically, he hastily changed the subject. He did not want to dwell on the fact that unless some miracle or lucky event occurred, the girl who had saved Frodo from drowning all those years ago had probably already been executed for her act of kindness.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

He really didn't want to admit it, but he felt strangely naked without the Ranger at his back now. Anar gritted his teeth against the sensation, but it persisted. Somehow, in the week since he and Elluine had been picked up by the Ranger and his men, the Liemuina youth had become used to the presence of the Numenorean at his back, watching out for the two Hidden Ones despite Anarmacil's surliness. And now... now they were alone in the middle of Hobbiton. Furious at the Ranger, Anar cursed him silently. He hated it here.

He led Ambarone on foot, Elluine slumping in the saddle. She was exhausted, that he could see easily. Her injuries were still not even half-healed, and had been worse than his own to start with. That, and her unfamiliarity with sleeping in the wilderness, had turned her into a practically lifeless zombie. He was a little better off. He could still trudge.

He had asked directions to Bag End off of a Hobbit maiden, who had stuttered them out while staring at the black bruise where his cheek used to be. Doltish girl. He hated being stared at. He knew what the Halflings were thinking when they stared at him that way. Their round, fearful eyes told him that no matter what he had done, no matter why he had done it, to them he would always be a butcher, a murderer. He had helped save the forests during the Fell Winter, helped to save the Hobbits. But he was from the Village, and he was a soldier, a warrior -

_his sword wet with the blood of a thousand enemies  
sweat and blood dripping into his eyes__  
the burning sting of a thousand cuts blazing across every inch of exposed skin__  
the right side of his face throbbing hotly across his cracked cheekbone  
the crimson cloth across his mouth the only thing preventing the thick, choking smoke from fouling his lungs.....  
_

His clenched fists were what snapped him back from the past, back into the grips of reality. His nails, short and ragged, were slowly gouging painful crescents into his palms. The pain - and the lack of a sword hilt in his hand - reminded him that nothing here was as it had been. He was not one of the despised heroes, and the Hobbit girl was only staring at him because he was a frightful sight, barely healed bruises and black-scabbed cuts, one arm in a sling to appease Aragorn's nagging, his clothes disheveled and travel-stained. The girl wasn't looking at him for _him_. She was looking because he was a Village lad in a sorry state. After her stumbling curtsey and mumbled directions, he immediately started moving away from her. Once out of sight, he knew she'd immediately go back to her chores. He was grateful for that.

"You're anxious," Elluine said softly. She didn't seem to notice the people staring at them. He couldn't stop himself from flinching under their seemingly accusing eyes. Around and around in his head, he whispered, _I'm not a murderer, I'm not a murderer, I'm not, I'm not...._

"Anar?" His friend's voice was softer than mist. "What's wrong?"

The youth didn't answer her. He couldn't. Too many memories threatened to slash him to ribbons. He saw the Hobbit holes, saw the Little People scurrying about their lives, and wondered if they knew how close it had come to their extinction all those years ago. He looked at the white road, the dirt a strange color like dusty bone, and shuddered as bloody slush superimposed itself in his eyes over what was really there. The world darkened to night for a long moment, a night lit up by burning thatch and flaming trees, and he instictively closed his eyes against the sight of a long ago battle field. He tried to force himself back to the present.

_Not the past,_ he thought forcibly to himself. _Not Buckland. Not the Smials. Not the Old Forest. This is Hobbiton. It's daytime. It's summer, still. You're with Elluine, not Naira. Everything is fine. Open your eyes and see it's all fine._

As he thought these things to himself, he opened his eyes. He had to focus on something real, something in the here and now. The only thing in front of him was the Hobbit town, and just the thought threatened to plunge him back into half-real memories of too real horrors. He jerked his head around, the bones in his neck popping in protest, seeking for something to lock his eyes onto, and he found Elluine's crystal blue eyes, her silver-gold hair, her pale, too thin face. For a moment, that was all he needed. He was in Hobbiton, with Elluine, in the summer. Not in the forest, with Naira and the others, in the depths of the Fell Winter. Not in the battle his father had commanded him to forget....

And that was his undoing. Thoughts of his father were his downfall. Elluine's pale eyes shifted by only a shade, darkening only a minute bit, her hair lightening to shock whiteness, and he was wrenched out of the relative safety of the mind that Ellie's face had granted him. It was only a single moment in time, but it shredded his self-control and thrust him back into memories -

_battle cries and curse from familiar throats  
the clash of metal, blade against blade  
blistering heat as the sun beat down upon them at noontide  
Anar swearing under his breath at his own idiocity, to have attacked a Fainmando in broad daylight  
the stench of smoke and blood choking him  
fire blazing in his chest, a burning pain, scorching and searing his heart  
someone screaming, screaming and calling his name, screaming....  
"Anar!" She screams, and he turns to her  
Blue eyes, darker than water crystals, electrified by fright  
"Anar!"_

"Anar!"

He jerked back to himself at the sound of Elluine calling his name. He blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging, and fought back what might have been tears if seen swimming in the eyes of someone else. But he refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that this wretched Halfling township had the ability to reduce him nearly to tears - not after everything he had done to strengthen his hold on his self-control. He blinked back the stinging wetness and looked around, for the first time realizing that he'd been walking the whole time. They were nearly through the town already. Bag End was close. They were near the drive. A little ways past the Hill of Bag End was the woods. They called to him, whispered of peace from the town that raked up so many cruel memories.

"Anar," the water-fated Liemuina girl called tentatively from Ambarone's back. "Anar, are you all right? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said mechanically, lying through his teeth. He couldn't tell her. He wasn't even sure what he could have said. He wondered briefly if he was going mad. He'd had the same thought, years ago, when he and Naira and Linde had been separated at first. He'd thought he'd been going mad because wherever he turned around, he saw familiar violet or sunrise colored eyes, the lovely raven black or copper fire hair that made his heart thump painfully in his chest. He would blink, and the images would disappear, rendering unto his questing, hungry gaze the familiar outlines of the forest, the Village, or its people. He hated that. He despised it.

And now the memories of war were threatening to swamp him, drown him, butcher him. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, hoping the pain would drown out the voices of the trees, and it did, but the taste of coppery blood dragged him down into the memories of battle-

_steel clanging against _vilyekemen  
_sweat and blood pouring down his face  
shoulder burning where an Orc blade strikes armor, cracking the bone  
__muscles ache as he blocks sword thrust after sword thrust  
__salt stings in a thousand cuts, makes his eyes burn  
h__e's lost his helmet somehow, but it doesn't matter, he must fight, must keep on  
arms and shoulders and legs burning with fatigue  
a__ silver horn bugling in the distance, calling them back to the Smials, to protect the Thain  
must run to protect the Thain  
__dodge the enemy's blades  
slash, thrust  
a sword comes hurtling towards his face...._

He came to himself in the woods, curled up on his knees, sagging against a tree trunk, his arms curling around his chest. He sucked in air, gasping for breath in the aftermath of the flashback. His heart felt as if it would shatter his ribs. All he could do was cry, great breathless sobs, and rock himself back and forth as twilight - when had it fallen - continued to deepen. He hugged himself as the tremors threatened to tear him apart, ripping at him from the gaping hole in his chest outwards. He gasped for breath, shuddering. Laughter, soft and feminine, filled his ears, wrenching at him. He clapped his hands against his head. He didn't see that his knuckles were suddenly scraped and bleeding, his palms bruised. He tried to block out the laughter, tried to forget the images blasting through his mind. Elusive as poison breath, they flickered in and out of his consciousness, dragging at him, slashing at him. Agony, gripping his chest in a vise, spasmed through his body, and he passed out into merciful unconsciousness.

He had no idea what had happened to Elluine.

.

**Oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oo8oO**

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.

Author's Note: this is my pet project. I want it to be epic. For an idea of how epic, check out Juno Magic's fanfic "Lothiriel." Because of how epical I want this, it needs a lot of rewrites. It also needs a whole lot of critique. So if you lot would be so kind as to critique me, I'd very much appreciate it. What did you like? What did you not like? What do you want or not want to see? Seriously, I pulled myself off my sickbed to pump out this chap (I think I have pneumonia or something -I've been stuck in bed for almost 5 days. I'm only going to work tomorrow because my 4-year-old charge can't get too behind on his reading and my 8 month old charge is learning how to stand up on her own. So review so I know my half-dead work is appreciated by my fans. Thanks.

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**Facts of Canon and Non-Canon**

1 - The Smials is the Took version of Brandy Hall - canon.  
2 - The Smials and Brandy Hall are estates. I imagine more than one building. However, not necessarily canon.  
3 - Seradoc = Merry's father. Canon. However, may have mispelled. Again, have pneumonia-ish-ness. Pity me.  
4 - Fell Winter = winter so bad the Brandywine froze, allowing white wolves to enter Shire. Canon. When I looked up "white wolves" on , it mentioned orcs, so Anar's flashback is canon. However, Anar's presence there is obviously not.  
5 - After the parting of the ways, Anar's story is continued in its own fic Gilnarion. He will make appearances here, but not a whole lot until way later. However, much occurs in his life before he and Elluine are reunited.

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**Translations**

Fainmando - Shining Prison (Quenya)  
Narmarta - fire fated, fire fey (fey = destiny)  
Nenmarta - water fated, water fey  
Vilyekemen - sky-earth (a metal similar to silver in color, but similar to steel in strength)

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**Sources & Inspiration  
**

1 - Beowulf (movie soundtrack)  
2 - Ranger's Apprentice 1  
3 - Twilight Saga: New Moon  
4 - Meredith Gentry (information)  
5 - Lord of the Rings (movies & books)  
6 - the Keys to the the Kingdom: Sir Thursday  
7 - the Keys to the Kingdom: Lady Friday  
8 - Lady of the Forest (Robin Hood Trilogy, Book 1)  
9 - Within Temptation  
10 - Idina Menzel  
11 - Muse  
12 - Skillet  
13 - 3 Days Grace  
14 - Veggie Tales  
15 - The Royal Diaries (Africa, India, China, Elizabeth I)

16 - 30 Seconds to Mars  
17 - Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn part 2  
18 - Night World 1  
19 - Breaking Benjamin  
20 - Disturbed  
21 - t.a.T.u


	10. 08 Down to a Sunless Sea

**A/N: _several people have asked me via review and private message about Anarmacil's story. Chapter 3 is up now, under the title Lornarion: Lithuin Tindu. Just an FYI because even though chapter 2 has been up for a while, people can't seem to find the fic._**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter Eight  
Down to a Sunless Sea**

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.

They saw her passage through the Halfling township, she knew that. She could feel their eyes just as strongly as Anarmacil's hunched shoulders proclaimed he could. The _Nenmarta_ didn't know what the golden haired youth was thinking and feeling. She was too wrapped up at first in her own pain. It seemed that each pair of eyes that lifted to stare at her, to watch her plod along on the horse's back, was a fist in her belly, a kick to her kidneys, a blow to the face, a slap. It hurt, having them look at her. Each glance was a blow that knocked the breath from her lungs. Each face bore an expression of revulsion for the Black Begetting, the putrescent creature on the fey (1) horse's back, invading their town, polluting their home as she made it to the drive in front of Bag End.

They saw her fall, but she didn't know that. They did nothing, and she didn't know that, either.

They saw the horse, which knocked over a hand-drawn cart full of porcelain crockery, smashing it all to pieces, in the stallion's headlong flight out of Hobbiton and into the forest, but she didn't know that, either.

All she did know was that her vision was swimming. Black spots danced before her eyes as the world began shimmering and melting around the edges of her sight. All she knew was, her body was one throbbing slab of pain.

All she knew was, something was wrong with Anar. He'd looked at her face for a long moment, then given a half-strangled cry of absolute agony and yelled out, "I'm not a murderer!" He'd turned away, staggering, and run into the woods.

Elluine Moraelin knew, knew with absolute certainty, that Anarmacil Carlothel would never, ever leave her alone in the state she was in unless something was truly wrong with him. He clung too strongly to his honor, his duty as a man, a lord, and a _Narmarta_, to leave a woman defenseless, injured and sick with pain, on a horse she was too small to control, in a town that was unsafe, just because he didn't feel the need to protect her anymore. He was too smart, too caring, too… too rebellious to allow her to wander off and leave her alone. He was sick. Something was wrong with him. He couldn't help it.

The question was, what was wrong? And what could she do?

As her hands spasmed in pain, as her breath hitched in her chest, she fell from Ambarone's back and landed in a painful heap at the flagstone steps leading up to the round, green, wooden door to Bag End. Her skull hit the bottom step with a resounding crack, and as she tried to get breath to scream, to call for Anar, for her mother, for help, for Frodo Baggins, a numbing darkness wrapped around her consciousness and pulled her down into oblivion.

.

Cirince watched. She was good at that.

Weak compared to the people she had been raised to admire, the winged _ravisoron_, a major part of the air force of the Liemuina, she was limited by her humanity and had thus learned to extrapolate upon what skills she did have. Whereas her half-brother had strong, powerful wings with which he could fly, hers were ornamental only. It had taken her all of her fifteen years to learn to maneuver with them on the ground, awkward and ungainly as they were. Too small for flight, too large to hide, and too delicate to not count them as a weakness, the feathery wings the color of burnished copper were her greatest drawback as a half-_ravisoron_. Where her father's eyes were keen as an eagle's and he had the ability to see in the dark, like a cat, both Cirince and her brother had eyes so sensitive they was nearly blinded in all but the dimmest candlelight. She often wore cloth over her eyes to protect them. Her form was human, despite her wings, delicately pointed ears, and too-powerful eyes, and thus weak compared to the other Liemuina younglings she was often in company with. She was strong for a human girl of the Peerage (a class she would have belonged to if she'd been entirely human) but only because of the years spent roaming the cliffs where she'd lived for most of her life. She was no stronger than the average human farm girl.

And she was small. Weak. Not strong, not tall, not pretty, not powerful. There was only one thing she was truly good at – watching.

She had learned from an early age how to pretend that she was invisible, that she didn't exist, that she wasn't there. If she pretended hard enough, people had a difficult time remembering her themselves, and if she were hidden carefully enough, she would be nearly impossible to see. She found out later from her mother that it was the _ravisoron_ version of the Glamour, the magic all Liemuina had (in some way). All her glamour allowed her was the ability to sometimes hide herself when the Liemuina of the Village would look for her and she didn't want to be found. Her mother had the ability, as well. So did the Rangers, the Elves, the Hobbits, and some warriors. Many children who had grown up in forests possessed the power to hide themselves this way as well. She'd been disappointed when she'd discovered just how common that form of Glamour was.

But it was what she did with this power that set her apart – she had learned early on how to spy on people. That's what she did now.

"They got away from me," Erynmir whined, kicking a stone with one slipper-shod foot. "Something was blocking my influence with the forest. I do not know who has that kind of ability – no one here, that is certain – but it prevented me from recapturing the wretch after she and Anarmacil made it into the forest." The future Wood Witch of Buckland glared hatefully at the tall trees surrounding the Village clearing as if the forest itself had betrayed her.

Cirince rolled her eyes, but otherwise remained motionless. She despised Erynmir, for her vanity, her pride, her cruelty, and her penchant for theatrics and melodramatic fits. One other thing that the winged girl despised about the Village in general and Erynmir in particular was the deference paid to Mistress Nimrohwen. Cirince hated that most of all.

Motionless, wings tucked tightly against her back, covered in mud from when she'd fallen into a pond, and nearly invisible against the forest backdrop in her current state, the half-_ravisoron_ listened as the Cenmarta with the cruel streak continued to rant about how the trees had refused to tell her what they knew. Cirince didn't know anything about that – her domain was the sky, snow capped peaks and windy cliffs, not the forest. But somehow, the young girl had the idea that Tauriel was behind it all. The _Tavari_, the oldest Liemuina that Cirince had ever met, underestimated her own influence. Lacking power, she had other gifts – charisma, charm, diplomacy, and an air about her that made it obvious that if she took the time to notice you, it was obvious that you were important to her. She was also slow to anger, slow to hate, and slow to hold a grudge. She was like a tree, patient as the redwood whose life anchored her to Middle Earth.

Yes, she highly suspected Tauriel of having something to do with this. It was just like her to sway the forest to her point of view without even having to exert any power at all. Just like her, indeed.

.

Tauriel wanted to brain herself with a rock. The only reason she hadn't done so yet was due to the fact that no rocks were available high up in the oak tree she was nestled in, trying to sleep. The only way to brain herself from that height was to throw herself out of the tree and make sure her head hit a branch or two on the way down. She wasn't high up enough for that to work out. It would only hurt, not give her what she wanted.

She hurt. It was the only reason she was being so irrational. Her skull throbbed. Her body ached. Her feet hurt. She simply wanted to lie in the crotch of this tree and fall asleep. She could feel the starlight on her hair, her skin, and it was sweet, but it was mingled with the sensation of approaching dawn. Two hours, maybe three, and the sun would rise over the horizon, gilding the trunks of the trees and the dark green, summer leaves with gold, peach, and crimson light. She loved the dawn, but not if she'd been awake for more than a full day.

She couldn't sleep.

It was the Halflings. They were so different, so strange, so full of life and excitement. She had done more in this one week than she had done in the last year. Being with Pippin and Merry excited her, made her feel… young. She felt so young around them. She hadn't been young since the Second Age of Middle Earth. And yet here she was, feeling like she hadn't felt since her great, redwood tree had been scarcely taller than she was.

"Can't sleep?"

Tauriel turned her head fractionally to look at Breeyid, who was climbing the tree the tavari was trying unsuccessfully to sleep in. The red-haired half-Liemuina girl settled herself onto a tree branch and began jauntily swinging her legs. Her bare feet, caked with earth, were moon white splotched with darkness in the starlight.

"No, just staring at the sky looking for a moon I know for certain isn't there," the wood girl replied airily, waving a hand to indicate the leafy canopy above her, blocking the starry sky lit – or unlit, as it were – with the new moon. "Obvious, Breeyid, I cannot sleep." She turned to glance at the half-breed girl's face, to ascertain if her sharp sarcasm had hurt the girl's feelings. Breeyid was still smiling, so either she hadn't realized Tauriel was being sarcastic, or she didn't care. It was difficult to tell with her, at times.

"It's kind of exciting, isn't it?" The red head asked her, leaning forward to glance down at the two Little Folk asleep upon the ground. "These Hobbits are so kind. The ones we've always run into were cruel to us but these two are so sweet."

"Don't be deceived," Tauriel murmured, although she couldn't find it in herself to be as fervent in her words as she might have been before meeting Meriadoc. "Hobbits are Hobbits," she went on, "and the Hidden Ones are the Hidden Ones. After we find Anarmacil and Elluine and go to that party, we leave. Do not become too attached to them while we're here. It will only bring you sorrow."

"Well aren't you just a bundle of joy? I understand that you're supposed to be ancient or something, but all the same, I must say you're a gloomy one. Why so glum all the time?" Breeyid demanded, incredulous.

"I am only warning you that things aren't going to turn out well if you insist on _liking_ these Hobbits."

"How can you _not_ like them?" She asked Tauriel, who stiffened.

How could you not like the two Hobbits? That had been what Tauriel had been whimpering to herself in her mind the entire trip. How could you not enjoy being around such exuberant and joyful people? Breeyid was right, these two Halflings were much kinder than the ones they had had dealings with previously. Merry and Pippin made a point to be gentlemanly to the two maidens, helping them over logs without being asked, fetching them soap root for bathing and guarding the streams with backs turned to make sure no one came upon them and harassed them, offering them first share of the meals. Until this point, the girls' experience with the Little People generally involved vulgar curses, lewd suggestions from a few, the cold shoulder, and thrown rocks. This genteel politeness was shocking, new, refreshing. And the two lads were just so funny….

"We have to stop ourselves from liking them," the _Tavari_ told her in clipped tones as she wrenched her wandering thoughts back into her head with harsh force. "Otherwise, we're in mortal danger. You know that."

Breeyid blinked, realizing that she hadn't thought of the law since meeting Pippin and Merry. Of course, the meeting was not their fault, and the invitation issued could not be helped. They wouldn't be punished for that. But might they be punished if it seemed like they were searching for excuses to remain in the Halflings' company? It was a frightening question – and a valid one. The _Cenmarta_ maid looked at Tauriel, whose face was blank of any emotion in the wan starlight, and she shivered.

The answer to that question was a very loud, resounding _yes_.

.

He saw it from the corner of his eye, and it rocked him like a brutal wind rocks a tree, but it penetrated his brain in tiny fragments too disjointed at first to make any kind of sense. Flashes of images, fragments of memory, wisps of scent and sound. A horse whinnied, and bolted, its eyes rolling so you could see the whites, its mouth frothing and foaming. A blue gown, so pale it was nearly gray, mended so many times it was nearly a sack on the thin frame, arrested his attention from the horse. But what struck him hard, what punched into his chest like a fist, knocking the wind from his lungs, was the pale, too-thin body falling to the ground in a billowing cloud of flaxen hair, her head hitting the flagstone step with a crack like snapping bone.

It was actually Gandalf who saw her first, but Frodo was at her side in an instant, lifting the limp form into his arms. The familiar face, its planes and contours etched into his memory, was still nearly unrecognizable beneath new and old bruises, half-healed cuts, and a horrid weal that parted the once average, almost homely face into diagonal sections, permanently disfiguring her, ruining any chances of prettiness. Her bottom lip was stitched from just above her chin to the plumpness of the actual lip with black thread. It made the Halfling shudder. Holding the girl tightly in his arms, he staggered to his feet and turned the Grey Wizard.

"Gandalf –"

"Give her to me," the old man commanded, and without waiting for acquiescence, took the blond woman out of Frodo's arms and began carrying her up the steps. "Look after my cart, Frodo, if you would be so kind. Have no fear," he added in a much gentler tone. "I will take care of her."

The Halfling nodded and went to do as he'd been bid while the wizard disappeared into the Hobbit hole. He actually had to take the pony and cart to Bagshot Row – there was no place to stable a beast like that at Bag End.

He found the Gaffer and Samwise working in their humble garden in the front of their Hobbit hole, their hands caked with good, tilled earth. In Sam's cupped hands was a fragile, delicate violet shoot, just unfurling a tiny, purple bud. The look on the Hobbit's face was one of almost incredulous wonder. Frodo felt a tiny drop of calm suffuse his spirit. It seemed as if, in a world where violets like this one could throw up pale, green shoots and give off such lovely blossoms, things weren't as frightening and horrible as the sight of Elluine Moraelin lying on Bag End's flagstone steps had led him to believe for a moment.

"Mister Frodo, sir!" Sam saw his young master's face and immediately realized something dreadful was afoot in the gentlehobbit's life (2). Sam placed the violet in a pot and handed the pot to his father before getting to his feet. "What's the matter, Mr. Frodo?"

"I need to stable this pony and cart here if I could, Sam," Frodo managed to get out. His throat felt perilously tight, a lump rising up in it as he glanced over at the mound in the Hill that was Bag End. He had not expected to see the Village maiden who had saved his life all those years ago so soon, and not lying unconscious on the pavement leading to his own front door. Forcibly turning his thoughts from the injured woman he and the Grey Wizard had discovered on his doorstep, he turned back to Sam, who immediately moved to take the little pony's reins. Frodo moved off of the cart bench to the ground, allowing Sam to take the cart away.

The older Halfling turned to run back to Bag End, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see Gaffer Gamgee looking down on him with a strangely concerned look upon his face.

"Young Master Frodo… is there something amiss?"

Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but closed it almost immediately. What should he say? He wasn't sure if he ought to mention that a girl from the Village was residing in his home at this moment. Was it safe to have such news spread around? The Gaffer meant well, Frodo knew that. He would never intentionally hurt anyone, even a stranger from the Village. But he was also a notorious gossip. What if something he said got to the wrong person? Would Elluine be safe if her presence wasn't a secret?

How in the world could he keep her presence a secret for very long?

Quickly, the Halfling told the Old Gaffer what was going on, but nothing about what Elluine had done for him as a young Hobbit bairn, floating helplessly down the Brandywine. When the Gaffer gave him a dubious look, Frodo insisted that the older Hobbit couldn't say a single word about what was going on. He had to keep it a secret until Frodo himself said it was all right to speak of it.

"But… Master Frodo, them Village folk-"

"Gaffer, please," Frodo begged, casting anxious glances around to make sure no one was listening to the conversation. The other Gamgees, minus Samwise, were all inside. Sam was taking the cart and pony to the barn. There was no one around to eavesdrop. All the same, Frodo wanted the conversation over.

"Young master, she's an outsider, and unnatural!"

"Gaffer, her life could be at stake!"

The Hobbit youth's eyes were pleading silently with the head of the Gamgee family. He simply could not impress upon him enough the importance of silence in this matter. He didn't know what made him say the bit about Elluine's life being at stake, but somehow he knew it to be true, even before he said it. It was imperative that it all remained quiet about her being in Hobbiton.

Finally, the Gaffer nodded, though Frodo could tell the gray-haired Hobbit was unhappy about the idea. Grateful, the young Halfling cried "thank you!" as he rushed away from Bagshot Row and raced up the path back to Bag End. Watching after him as he pelted headlong through the tiny bit of wild lands between Bagshot and Bag End, the Gaffer frowned, and wondered what evil thing had come into Hobbiton on that strange, fire-eyed horse with the strange, bone-gray teeth.

.

She drifted in darkness.

For a time, all was midnight mists and sable smoke. She floated on an obsidian ocean, the wavelets lapping gently at her ice cold skin, leaving trails of wetness on her cheeks that tasted strangely like tears. She felt nothing, afloat in the sea of numbingly cold, phantom waters. There was no moon above her, no stars, no clouds or sky as far as she could tell. There was only the soft sighs of the sable sea, and the salt of the water, like tears and without the taste of bitter brine. She drifted, half-asleep beneath the black, lightless sky inside her own unconsciousness.

She awoke when she saw a flickering light, a blue beacon the color of flaming sapphires, on the horizon, far off and away. She saw it, and it lanced her to the core.

_Come back. Your time is not yet done._

_Why do people always have to act so dramatic?_ She called out to the burning cobalt flame, exasperated.

Rolling her eyes, she flipped herself over and began treading water, feeling the cool wetness of the sea lapping at her body. She could feel tiny currents and eddies swirling around her toes, tickling her calves. Somehow, she felt that she ought to have been afraid of a pitch black ocean, with no light to see by, and no sounds other than the sound of the waves. But she was in the water, sweet and cool despite the salt, and it welcomed her. Elluine simply couldn't feel frightened of the sea at this point.

Again speaking to the light flickering in the distance, she called, _I'm not exactly on Death's door, you know. It's difficult to kill one of the Liemuina. Whoever you are, no need to sound like I'm already in my grave._

She managed to surprise a wry chuckle from the strange, cyanotic luminosity, and that made her smile. She had no idea why the idea of a voice coming out of a pale blue light didn't strike her as odd. The fact that it didn't strike her as odd struck her as odd, but that was the gateway to such a convoluted chain of thought that she cut it off immediately and began swimming towards the light. After all, it could speak - an intriguing development and the only interesting thing occurring on the vast expanse of the sea.

.

"She has a strong will," the Wizard murmured absently, as he pulled himself out of the girl's mind. This sort of Healing was difficult, and potentially dangerous to those fools only half-trained. Luckily, a member of the Order of the Istari was anything but half-trained. The girl's spirit was rising out of the depths of unconsciousness and she would wake soon. That was all that mattered. But the thought brought a niggling concern. Glancing over at the youth to whom he had been speaking, he saw that Frodo had quite probably heard nothing he'd said in the last minute or so. His large, luminous eyes were wider than usual in his head, scanning the pale, sunken face and still form lying on the Hobbit's own bed. It had been hours since bringing Elluine Moraelin into the Hobbit hole, and for the first time since seeing the flaxen haired maiden fall to the ground, the gray-bearded Wizard had hope of recovery.

A gentle knock at the door took Gandalf's attention from the golden crescents cast across the thin, sharp cheekbones by silvery eyelashes to the doorway to Frodo Baggins' bedroom. In the portal were three Hobbits - Bilbo, Samwise, and a young Hobbit maiden the bearded Wizard had no trouble recognizing - Rosie Cotton.

"What's going on here?" Frodo demanded, and his voice was harsh and sharp. Gandalf glanced at him and saw twin spots of high color in his cheeks, a furious glitter in his eyes. Surprised, the blue-eyed giant (or so he was forced to think of himself in the presence of so many diminutive, childlike Hobbits) laid a restraining hand on the bony shoulder of the young Hobbit lad and murmured, "There, now, Frodo, there's no need to be angry."

But the boy was still tense, ready to fight. Most unlike the gentle Halfling.

"Samwise has brought young Rosie-"

"Why?" He demanded angrily through clenched teeth. The Gaffer had promised to tell no one that Elluine was in the township of Hobbiton. Now that Rosie knew, everything was ruined. Elluine would be forced out of Hobbiton. She could very well die out there, injured as she was, barely able to maintain consciousness, if she were forced to fend for herself out there in the thickest parts of the wilderness. For some reason, just the idea of her being forced to struggle in the wild, when that strange portent out of the East continued to make his flesh crawl, actually attempt to crawl from his bones and hide... he couldn't stand it. Frodo found himself clenching his fists in anger.

"Calm down, Frodo, my lad," Bilbo interrupted. "Rosie's here to help this young lady with her convalescence when she wakes up."

Immediately, the dark-haired youth relaxed and wondered what had come over him. Why had he become so angry? Something like relief shuddered silently through him as the dark rage left him as quickly as it had come. Frodo gave Rosie a quick nod, half-acknowledgment, half-apology. Then he went back to staring into the thin, white face upon his pillow.

What had happened? What had happened to her? When he had seen her last, she had been strong, capable, alert, ready to fight, able to care for herself. Now she was reduced to... to this. Pale. Pathetic. Weak, vulnerable, and in desperate need of protection from what the cobalt-eyed Halfling youth could tell from her injuries. Had she no escort? Had she no friends? When she woke from her deep sleep, there would be only a handful of Halflings and a crotchety, lovable Wizard there to wait for her to awaken, but no people of the Village. No friends, no family, no sweetheart. She would wake, for all intents and purposes, alone in a strange and unfriendly place... no. No, Frodo would not allow that to happen. He would be here for her when she awoke. Surely she would remember his face, would remember him, despite the fact that he was now almost twenty-one years older than he had been the last time he had seen her. She would remember, and she would be glad of his presence.

"Mr. Frodo?" Samwise edged cautiously towards the Hobbit, concern etched across his features, as easy to see as markings upon a page. Frodo did not look up, did not acknowledge him, did nothing other than continue staring at the form upon the bed. The younger Hobbit, eyes wide in his head, watched his Master as the clock continued to tick away, and wondered just who this Village lass was, and why she was so very important.

.

She swam in shadows, cutting through the water as cleanly as a fish, the muscles in her arms rippling like waves beneath her skin. She smiled, reveling in the feel of the water rushing past her skin as she parted it with her hands and thrust herself forward. The light was bright, now, a glimmering blue glow alight upon the water several yards away. She was close. She would probably reach it in a matter of moments, unless she decided to rest in the dark, buoyant waters she had swum in for what seemed an eternity and yet only moments.

_Wait..._

She suddenly had a thought that brought her up cold. For several seconds, she trod the water, allowing it to sooth her suddenly agitated thoughts. She had realized something just as she'd come to within scant feet of the gentle, cyan light beckoning to her. Like an imbecile, she had followed the light without hesitation, swum after it as if she were some kind of mindless infant crawling along to some kind of Pied Piper's enchanting, intoxicating lullaby. She ducked beneath the waves, allowing the cool ocean waters to clear her head, before surfacing to think and breathe.

Why go back? Why suffer through it all again? What was she to do with herself? It wasn't as if she had anywhere to go. Anarmacil had even deserted her, not that she believed he'd meant to. But now she had no one and nothing to go back to. Why leave this beautiful ocean, so welcoming and wonderful, where she felt no pain, felt no grief or sorrow, just to return to a world that hated her?

_Because there is someone here that needs you,_ the blue light breathed against her ears. _He is under a spell by one of your kind. He needs you, or the magic will drive him mad._

Elluine shoved a lock of damp hair out of her face and looked straight at the blue ambiance upon the waters. She stared at him, hard, her mouth twisted into a scowl that didn't hurt because here, she had no stitches in her mouth, no slices from the whip, no cracked bones or damaged skin. She was whole, and she was in no pain. She was free of the fear that had plagued her since she was old enough to understand what her parents' words to her had actually meant (_tell no one that we found your mother, Ellie, no one, do you understand? All our lives depend on it)_ and she was in a world where everything was easy and soft and painless. But according to this light, touched and flavored with raw magic, there was someone in the real world who not only wanted her, but _needed _her. To save his very sanity, it seemed.

"Who?" She asked, her voice breaking. Who could possibly need her?

_Frodo Baggins._

_._

It started with a breath, heaved like a sigh or a gust of wind. For a moment, Frodo thought he could smell the sweet scent of the rivers, or something like it. Then a pair of silver lashes glittered and fluttered, and the girl on the bed opened her eyes. She took a breath, as if testing the air, and then her gaze, clear as crystal blue waters, swirled around the room before alighting on the pale face of Frodo Baggins.

"Hello, Frodo Baggins," Elluine Moraelin whispered.

"Hello, Elluine Moraelin," he replied, and smiled. An answering smile lit up her pale face.

.

.

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

I hope you enjoyed this latest installment. I pounded it out in about 2 months, during the downtime during my family reunion and during my honeymoon (yes, I'm Mrs. MDJ now instead of Ms. MD!). This sets up everything else. From this point on, the story is all Elluine. Anarmacil, Cirince, Breeyid, and Tauriel make their appearances, but their stories now diverge so greatly that they cannot be written into the same story and include everything we need to know about their doings without losing track of the main focus which has taken almost 10 whole chapters to set up - the relationship between Frodo and Elluine. And now, at last they've met.

**DEFINITION OF MARTA PENNAS:**

The word martapennas means "tales of the fey." Here, what I mean is not "tales of fey" as in faery, but fey as in "those with a strange or unique fate." Granted, that applies to everyone and their dog in Lord of the Rings, but I just want to be clear. Since it applies to everyone and their dog (to quote Mrs. MacReady, "Everyone has their part to play." Including the baby currently climbing the book case next to this computer desk who is frequently diverting my attention from this chapter with her musical exploits in honor of the death of Bohemia, as she showcases her antiphonal symphony involving a USB cable and a metal shelving unit. It's starting to sound a bit like Musetta's Waltz. If you caught that reference, I'll give you a cyber cookie and a walk-on part in Anarmacil's story during book 2) I don't feel too bad about giving everybody that one little thing they have to do that's necessary for the survival of civilization as we know it. Life is like that. Watch _Touched By An Angel_ and you will totally see what I mean.

**ABOUT THE MARTAPENNAS SERIES:**

In this series, there are subseries. Like Tamora Pierce – she has her Tortall series, but in that series are at least 5 sagas (Beka Cooper, Song of the Lioness, Wild Mage and the Immortals, Protector of the Small, Daughter of the Lioness). In that same way, there's the Martapennas series, but in that series are different sagas – _Eomer Dreams, Son of Flame, Daughter of the River, Chronicles of a Red Wren, the Heirs of Gondor_, etc. Some take place in the past or the future, and some take place during other Tales of the Fey or during the Lord of the Rings.

_**Luineyende**_ takes place from _the very beginning of the Fellowship of the Ring_ (a while before the Farewell Party) to some time **AFTER** Samwise sails to Valinor after the end of the Return of the King. Anarmacil has his own story as well, which will actually be a duology at least: Tinurion and Gilnarion. I think. I haven't entirely decided on the title yet. The story(ies) about Anarmacil that will be written/posted soon start as of the end of the last chapter (when he finds himself in the forest) until probably the death of Aragorn in 144FO (Fourth Age). Cirince has her own little series of one-shots that cover about 2 decades, and then a chapter-fic that will cover her activities during the War of the Ring until the end of the War.

Tauriel and Breeyid… well, Tauriel makes various appearances in both Tinurion and Luineyende, as well as the Cirince stories, but she won't be a major player until the Hobbits set out to go to Bree. Breeyid… is currently a loose end. I have some ideas, but nothing definite. Please bear with me. But I want you all to understand just what is going on my head right now.

Bye-bye.

**ABOUT THE CHAPTER TITLE:**

I changed the original title because it just didn't fit with anything in the story. So instead, I picked what I think is the last line of the poem _Xanadu_: _In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a shining pleasure dome decree... something and something, something, blah-blah... down to a sunless sea_. Since it describes the place where Ellie resides most of the chapter, I thought - hey, cool!

**FOOTNOTES:**

1 – Here, fey does not mean fairy. I've seen fey used to describe people who looked strange, otherworldly. That is the meaning I intend here.  
2 – I tried to take the word "gentleman" and turn it into the Hobbit version. The computer says I spelled it wrong, but they said the same thing about the word Hobbit to begin with, so yeah.

**SOURCES & INSPIRATION:**

_The Chronicles of Narnia_ (books)  
_Daughter of the Forest_ by Juliet Marillier (book)  
_Daughter of the Lioness Duet_ by Tamora Pierce (book)  
Disney's the Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian  
Disney's the Hunchback of Notre Dame  
_Lady of the Forest_ by I Don't Remember  
_The Last Herald Mage Trilogy_ by Mercedes Lackey (books)  
_Lord of the Rings_ (movies and books)  
Nevrast . net  
_Ranger's Apprentice_ (books)  
Tuckborough . net  
_Violet and Claire_ by Francesca Lia Block  
Wikipedia . org


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